Painful memory leads to my voice
Tapping into these memories is difficult, because I had archived them in a secluded file in the most remote part of my brain, labeled “Extremely Painful, Do Not Resuscitate.”
It was as if a volcanic eruption took place in the depths of my soul. Thoughts, memories buried and long forgotten, emerged. I believe I have found my voice.
This begins on a cold Sunday morning in about 1962, in the Fourth Ward or Freedman’s Town, now referred to as Midtown. Back then the street had a mix of small houses.We heard a piercing scream and frantically ran outside to investigate the disturbance. It was just around the corner on Crosby Street, a dead end. To our dismay, we discovered that there had been a fire.
My friend, Mayberta, was approximately 13 years old, pale in complexion, long black hair and her eyes mirrored sadness. She was very kind, but at the time I could not comprehend her emptiness. It wasn’t until years later that I came to understand, after much reflection, the nature of Mayberta’s emptiness. She never knew love.
Mayberta was still dressed in her nightgown and trying to keep warm. In those days, it was a common practice to carefully back up to a space heater. This was a gas space heater with an open flame, a dangerously antiquated heating method later modified by Dearborn with grids and an exterior safeguard. Mayberta got too close and her gown ignited, causing her to panic and run outside. There was so much confusion and screaming that we didn’t know what to do except run in the direction of the commotion.
The people acted without thinking and poured water on her to extinguish the blaze. This was heartbreaking and traumatic to watch. I was only 10 years old and thought, the fire is out, isn’t that good? Well, people started to murmur and whisper that they should not have done that.
An ambulance came and took my friend to the hospital and I had no idea what that meant with respect to our relationship. I was so happy when my mama said we were going to see her. Would Mayberta get well, so that we could play together? I had no way of processing these thoughts.
I went to the hospital and I just stared at Mayberta. She was clearly in pain, but she looked at me with a partial smile and said, hi Mildred. Those are the last words of hers that I remember. I was later told that she contracted pneumonia and died. During that era, no one ever addressed children’s concerns, so I had to just deal with this revelation as best I could. I was told that I had to sing a solo at her funeral, and I was never a singer, just in the choir as
many of us kids were. I paid tribute to my friend in song with the hymn, “How Great Thou Art.” In my cracking voice, trying to hold back the tears, the mission was accomplished.
I had not thought of Mayberta in 45-plus years, but remembered thinking about how I concluded that she did not know love. I was
in my 20s when I revisited the ordeal.
I began to ponder over Mayberta’s life to the best of my recollection and unearthed some horrendous memories. She had no visible parents, and was shifted between places, spending time with someone referred to as “Godmother.” Also, an old lady named Ms. Viney, at the time appearing to be 100 years old in my little mind, was her caretaker. I call her that because she didn’t
seem to have any emotional attachment and displayed no compassion or love toward the young girl. Ms. Viney would beat her for the simplest of things. Needless to say, I did not care for her, even though I could in no way express that feeling.
Ms. Viney was a chronic gossiper and my mother referred to her and the squadron she mingled with as “The Brotherhood Eye.” It wasn’t until much later, that I discovered that this was a news/
tabloid circulation comprised of all the current events, and of course, most importantly, the gossip in the black community.
Mayberta’s abrupt end caused my heart to ache. It has been 58 years and I am still bewildered thinking about her. All I can say is, Mayberta, I am sorry that you never knew love on your short journey and I pray that my acknowledging your life will be a catalyst for my liberation.
Liberation is a funny thing.
Liberation is removing layers of doubt, fear and distrust in humanity and relinquishing the most guarded and sacred part of one’s self. I feel hopeful even at this late hour of my life, because allowing others into these tender places will enable me to confront my own brokenness and finally be free to be me.
Scott is a retiree of the U.S. Postal Service and a crossing guard at Travis Elementary.