Pray and Work for Protection

During the 1970s, my Dad drove a Ford Thunderbird. He would pick us up in that big car with the plush comfy back seats, cover us in warm blankets, and begin to drive. Always there was music playing. We would listen to the peaceful hum of the engine along with the soothing tunes of The O’jays, The Supremes, The Temptations or some other band. Gladys Knight and her pips would take us on “The Midnight Train to Georgia.” I learned the words to all of those songs as we sang and rode. I’d listen until I fell asleep. And always like magic, I’d awake when we had arrived at our destination.

Once we were driving at night on the freeway. The back door opened. My bare feet scraped the surface of the ground as I almost slipped out of the car. Dad yanked me back inside. I recall the strange sensation of my feet scraping the ground. It didn’t hurt. I also remember Dad wrapping me in his arms and kissing my bare feet. He was so grateful that I was not harmed. I was fine and wasn’t in any pain. I didn’t realize the extent of the danger that I was in at the time. I just remember being rescued.

On one of our trips to the Pacific Ocean, I swam out far into the sea. I didn’t realize how far away I was from the shore. I just remember that I could no longer hear my Dad’s voice. I saw him waiving at me to return to shore. So I began to swim back to him. Unfortunately, every time I swam forward, the current would pull me backward. Suddenly, Dad swam out to meet me. He grabbed me and threw me toward the shore. Swam to me again and threw me forward. He did this repeatedly until we had once again reached the shore. He said, “You kept swimming but your little arms weren’t making any progress. I knew that you would get tired soon.” I looked at the waves and felt their awesome power. My heart was filled with gratitude that Dad was there to rescue me.

On another occasion, Dad, my older cousin Johnny, my brother, sister, and I were driving in Los  Angeles. Dad made a wrong turn onto a one way street. When he realized his mistake he began to turn the car around. By the time the car was righted, we were surrounded by the police. The officers forced us out of the car at gun point. We were in front of a Carl’s Jr sitting on the curb, when we were handcuffed.

Then we were separated from Dad and Johnny. No longer were we sitting in comfortable seats covered with blankets. The seats in the back of the police car were hard and angry. Bars separated us from our captors. The handcuffs ached as they dug into my wrists. We were not charged. But we were jailed. My sister and I, because we were female, were locked in adjacent cells. My brother, who is one year and a half younger than me, was placed in a cell with juvenile boys in another part of lock up. He was away from our father who was placed in adult lock up.

We worried so very much about it all. We cried uncontrollably. We then decided to console ourselves by singing songs that we had learned during those car rides. We began to sing. Our jailers must have felt some pity for us after hearing us sing. They told us that we could come out of our individual cells and remain in a larger cell together. We asked if our brother could be placed with us. We asked for our phone call. We asked for our Dad. We were behind bars for hours. Our requests remained unanswered. My cousin, Jackie, came and saved the three of us from jail because she had received a call from Dad. They did not release Dad. He remained behind bars.

When Dad was released, he found out that his mother, Ida Mae, had died the night we were arrested. Dad said, “All of my life it was her prayers that protected me. I had never been incarcerated because she was praying for me. It was the day that she died that I went to jail. Her prayers lifted when she passed away. I am going to pray for you the way that my mama prayed for me. I am going to pray hard that Allah protect you and that you never have to suffer and no harm touches you.”

Prayers of protection have the power to heal our wounds and trauma. I have heard a lot of people say that they are tired of requests for thoughts and prayers because the government remains inactive. My Dad prayed for me. But he also rescued me, kissed my wounds, wrapped me in warmth and security. My brother, sister, and I were blessed by our Dad’s prayers and his unconditional love. His prayers and unconditional love worked. He made me feel secure and like my life mattered. Dad made me feel safe.

Racism is real. It is a cancer. I think my grandmother’s prayers covered my Dad all the days of his life. That doesn’t mean that he didn’t have to deal with the hardship and pain of racism. However, it was her prayers that helped to heal him from the pain so that he could show us the love he did. And I know Dad’s prayers continue to cover me. I have not been made secure from racism. However, I feel blessed because of the love that my family has for each other. It helps us heal from the trauma of racism. I pray for protection for my children. I also work everyday to make them feel loved, secure, and safe. I pray for protection for the children being separated from their families at the border. Prayer alone isn’t going to end racism. May our prayers cover us and may our work strengthen and unite us in this fight.

Harlem Lessons

Riding the Amtrak train today, reminded me of the ways Dad used popular culture and storytelling to teach life lessons to us. When Dad lived in Easton, PA, we would often drive into NYC, Dad loved NY. He passed that love on to me by taking me through the sites, sounds, and lessons of Harlem. We would often ride the NYC subway uptown. Before the rides, he would remind me how to behave on the train. He told me that I should not stare at anyone because someone would inevitably shout me down with, “What are you staring at!?!” He joked that I should not step on anyone’s Nike shoes. He also said to where my purse in front of me and across my chest to avoid getting it snatched. But the most memorable lesson was when Dad taught me about racial segregation by comparing our ride to the ride that was taken by “Brother From Another Planet” This 1984 film is a satirical depiction of a Black man who is a mute alien that lands in NYC.

There is an iconic scene in the movie in which Brother rides the subway uptown. His companion asks, “You want to see all the white people disappear?” Before the train enters Spanish Harlem, all the white passengers depart. As Dad and I rode the train, he repeated those words to me. I watched all of the white people exit the train at about 82nd avenue. Then watched the Black and Latinx who remained on the train. Although I dared not stare at my co-passengers, I would often listen to them and learn little tidbits of their lives as we rode together. I remember the high schoolers with their thick NY accents, the elderly folks riding the train home from work, and the richness of the stories and the cultures. In addition to learning of the people through riding the train, Dad was sure to impart the stories of the authors and artists of the Harlem Renaissance to me. He would describe how Blacks were segregated from whites who would not dare come uptown on the train because of their fears. He also made sure that I knew and understood the difference between being fearful of my people and aware of my surroundings.

During our visits to NY, Dad took the time to show me around Harlem. We walked up and down Lenox Avenue, 125th street, and stood in front of the Audubon Ballroom where Malcolm X had been assassinated. I bought t-shirts and other paraphernalia from the street vendors.  We strolled through the Apollo Theater. I was enthralled by the wall of fame with all of the inspirational artists of the past. Everything about the rhythm of the city, the sounds, the smells, the tastes was mesmerizing for me. Dad wasn’t alone in his love for NY. I loved every bit of it.

Dad always led  me to believe that NY was in my blood. He told me that I was born in NY on a snowy November day. According to him, he and Mom didn’t have enough money for a cab ride to the hospital. So Mom decided to hike through the snow all the way from their apartment in Harlem to Mt. Sinai hospital . After we left the hospital, Dad said that New Yorkers tossed money into my stroller just to get a glimpse of me. Dad made sure to let me know that he believed I was beautiful from the start. He also reminded me to respect my mother who was a strong Black woman for me to emulate. He would say, “Your mom never backed away from nothing. That’s why she walked miles through the snow to give birth to you!”

In addition to teaching me to love NY, myself, and my mother, Dad’s stories helped me learn lessons about the type of person  I should be. Once Dad came home with a VCR that he bought from a Harlem street vendor. Dad was elated because he bought a brand new video player for $50. This was, according to him, $150 dollar discount. When he got home and opened the box, Dad discovered two bricks instead of the VHS recorder. We all got a good laugh out of the fact that Dad paid $50 for bricks. He laughed the most saying that the brother must have needed that money more than he did.

I will never forget our times in Harlem because Dad taught me to love myself, my mom, my people and the City.  I also learned that when life hands you bricks, laugh long and hard.