Evicted and Abandoned, at Eighteen

The eviction notice came on the heels of a tough and mournful year. The torment began with a venomous phone call from my father.  His voice was weak, but his words cut like a knife.    

"Joni, you killed your mother." 

Little Joni & Daddy.

I hung up on him.  My legs buckled.  I steadied myself against the wall and made it to my bed, where I collapsed.

I knew what he meant. Mommy was gone.  She was only forty-six years old, and I was just sixteen. But was I a murderer now?

As I lay there, still dazed from the stunning blow, the world stopped. And in that surreal moment, a small voice in my head told me the truth. Your mother is dead, but you are not a murderer. And then I smashed my face into the pillow and howled like a wounded animal.  There could be no greater pain than this.

My Beautiful Mother

I loved her. And her love for me was unconditional, no matter the magnitude of the teenage problems I laid at her feet. She was my beautiful, tall, brown-skinned mommy with the pretty dresses and the soft, lovely voice. She was the warm hug and gentle smile that sent me off to school every morning, and the loving squeeze and kiss on the cheek that greeted me when I returned. She was the strong hand that guided me through life. My rock and my protector. Asthma and pneumonia took her away – not me. I knew it. Daddy knew it. And later, an autopsy confirmed it.  

Pain

 What was I going to do now? 

I curled up into a ball, for days.  My family banned me from the funeral.  They said I was too young.  Too fragile. Too broken. The truth was, they didn't want questions and whispers about my secret. My mother was the only one who didn’t shun me for it. But she was gone. Now I’d have to get rid of the problem, just like everybody wanted me to – wash my hands. I didn't realize my decision would leave a bloody stain on my life, and an even deeper hole in my heart. I needed my mother more than ever now.

 Numb

 She died right before Christmas.  My father walked around the apartment, singing a song with a line I will never forget, “There will be no Christmas for me...”  And when he sang it, I heard his tortured soul crying out for her.   Sometimes he'd sing songs of hope, and recite poems about butterflies and sunlight.  He encouraged me to write. To sing. To thrive. And a few weeks later, when I turned seventeen, he bought me a birthday cake.

 Despite his cruel indictment of me, he didn't want me to drown in my sorrow. In those moments, I was still his little girl.  And he was still my teddy bear daddy – my laughing, sunshine daddy – the man who'd loved, nurtured and adored me all my life.  

Now we cried together, a lot. We were trying to get through life without her, and we were failing miserably. I forgave him for the way he delivered the news of my mother’s passing – I knew he didn’t mean it. Later, I realized he was projecting his guilt onto me.

 All I could think about was my mother. I pushed my secret to the back of my mind – I couldn’t absorb another loss. I was a zombie, just trying to make it through my last six months of high school. I graduated, but skipped the ceremony.  I couldn't face college either – it would have to wait.  I even turned down a full scholarship to a school in Florida. I knew I barely had the strength to put one foot in front of the other. Besides, I couldn’t leave home, because my mother wouldn’t be there to cheer me on, to call me, or to just love me.

I'd made a prior commitment to be a junior counselor, at a camp where I’d spent many summers. So, six months after my mother's death, I got on a bus and headed to the Catskills. The camp’s executive director, a loving, earth mother type, was the only one who knew my story.  I interacted with campers and fellow counselors. I smiled. I hiked. I sang campfire songs. I did what I had to do.  But on the inside, my soul wept.

Downward Spiral

I returned home from camp, thankful for the weekly allowance my father continued to send me all summer. I’d saved all the money I earned at camp, and I had a tiny inheritance from my mother.  It went fast. After a few months, I started showing up at my father’s barbershop, desperate for cash.  

Daddy was losing interest in my well-being.  He kept coming home late, stumbling and reeking of alcohol.  After a while, he rarely showed up.  I didn’t know where he was staying – he never brought up the subject, and I didn’t ask.  Week after week, I was mostly home alone, struggling to make it on the few dollars he gave me.

When I was a little girl, I thought my daddy was rich.  He owned a barbershop.   Before I was born, when he and my mother fled the south and came to New York, he thought his college degree would open doors. He’d been a brilliant student. A plaque, displayed in the lobby of his alma mater, memorialized his academic achievements.   But he ended up mopping floors. Undefeated, he cut hair on the side, and saved his money. At the same time, he raised his children, and doted on his wife.  By the time I was in second grade, he opened his shop. That was years ago. I no longer thought we were rich, but I still didn’t understand why money was so tight.  

Soon, my frequent trips to the barbershop got ugly. My father was always angry when I showed up.  He’d dig into his pocket, and throw a fist full of money at me.  I’d try to catch the bills before they hit the floor, and I crawled around to pick up the coins.  I needed every penny. There were times when he’d chase me out of the shop, empty handed.  I never knew what to expect.  One day he pulled a knife on me. Oh. My. God. I ran for my life, but I came back after a few days.  I had no choice. I’d pray that he’d have a customer in the chair, but who would take a haircut from a drunken barber? The shop was usually empty. I didn’t realize he was running the customers away. The man who was my daddy had become an alcohol-fueled monster. 

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 Eviction

 Then it happened.  The eviction notice was taped to the apartment door. 

I had never seen or paid a bill in my life. I’d taken everything for granted. I panicked.

I called my father. He slurred some words into the phone, and hung up. Something told me he was never coming back home. The weight of the eviction was solely on me.  

I took the scary notice to my girlfriend Sherri’s house, so I could show it to her mother, Mrs. Lake.  I needed an adult to weigh in on it. She knew about my mother’s passing, and I filled her in on my father. She sat at her dining room table and read the eviction notice. I watched the color drain from her pretty face.  She said the back rent had to be paid or I’d have to get out in thirty days, and all our belongings would end up on the sidewalk. And then she said nothing. I could see she was worried.  She was known for her big, beautiful smile – she was always a ray of sunshine, no matter what. There was no smile on her face now. She handed the paper back to me, telling me how sorry she was. We were both speechless as I walked out of her apartment and headed home.  

 I went to bed and curled up into a ball, and I stayed there, for days.

The lovely Mrs. Lake, over the years.

Just days before our belongings were tossed out, the phone rang.  It was Mrs. Lake.  She asked me to stop by. I needed food, so I went. I got a nice meal, and something else that I will never forget.

She asked, “Would you like to come and live with us?”

My emotions overwhelmed my voice. We hugged.  When I got myself together, I thanked her as I choked back tears.  I felt relieved, but terrified.  I went home and packed my clothes.

 It was late summer.  I felt the warmth of the sun on my face

Mr. & Mrs. Lake

as I walked out of my building, lugging my suitcases. I wondered when our furniture would be put out on the sidewalk. And then I pushed my feelings way down into a dark place, for a long, long time.  

 I walked to Mrs. Lake’s building, which was just steps away.  When she opened her door and let me in, her beautiful smile was back, but like me, she was speechless.     

 My girlfriend Sherri had just left for college, so Mrs. Lake gave me her room.  Sherri's younger sister, who was still in junior high school, had her own bedroom too.  We didn’t have much to say to each other.   I was functioning, but not feeling.  

Most nights when I lay alone in Sherri’s bed, my mind raced. This isn’t my bed. What am I

Motherless, Teenage Me.

doing here? I can’t do this. What happened to me? Then I started hearing voices at night. It was always someone calling out my name. Joni. Joni. Joni. I told Mrs. Lake about it, because I sensed that I was losing my mind. She said it was probably one of the kids in the apartment upstairs, trying to spook me.  She was wise to find a rational explanation, but I wondered if she really believed what she was saying. Looking back, I cannot imagine what was going through her mind. Her face was calm and reassuring, but I’m sure she was worried about me, and about what she’d gotten herself into.  After a few weeks of torture, the voices stopped. But I was still very troubled. I worked harder on shoving my feelings way down, deeper, and deeper.

 I was robotic and needy at the same time. I asked Mrs. Lake to send me to college.  I shared my dreams and goals and asked her to finance all of them.  I didn’t realize she and her husband were doing their best to raise their own daughters, and get them through college. By taking me in, they’d saved my life, and disrupted theirs. But I thought I’d automatically become a member of their family. Mrs. Lake knew it, yet she never dismissed my requests – she didn’t hit me with the truth.  She always said she’d think about it. Then she gently suggested that I get a job, just so I could have my own pocket money. That was okay by me.  But I still didn’t realize the Lakes were not my substitute parents.     

Jobs were plentiful - I found work without much effort.  But I was young, inexperienced, and not ready for the customer service job I’d landed at the phone company.  I refunded customers without reviewing their accounts – I took them at their word. It wasn’t long before I got fired.  

 I started working long term temporary jobs, doing repetitive work, like stuffing envelopes.  With everything that was on my head, it was all I could manage. 

Once I was working and appeared to be adjusting, Mrs. Lake gave me tiny goals – like buying my own toothpaste and toiletries. Or at least buying laundry detergent, since she was the one who was washing the clothes.  She was trying to teach me how to be independent. I needed to understand I was a boarder in her home.  She was very nurturing and gentle as she tried to nudge me into a reality that I still wasn’t ready to accept.  She was a mom – but not my mom. Her talk didn’t work. I had been through too much. I wanted my mommy, and if I couldn’t have her, then I needed Mrs. Lake to be my mom.  I also didn’t do all the things she suggested. So, I ended up feeling guilty, and then I pushed the guilt way down deep.   

 I didn't know Mrs. Lake was an angel.  I didn't know I would cherish her for the rest of my life. I didn't know her gift was so special that I could never thank her enough.  I didn't know that years later, whenever I saw her, I'd get a lump in my throat. I didn't know she would pass away before I could tell her how grateful I was for what she did, and how much I loved her. I remain eternally grateful, and forever touched by her kindness, and her grace.

About a month after I’d moved in, I was chatting with Mrs. Lake and I mentioned something about one of my aunts.   Mrs. Lake was shocked – she’d assumed I had no relatives. But my mother had eleven siblings, and most of them were married and living in New York, in nice homes. I never thought of reaching out to them. It never occurred to me – my parents always took care of everything. Mrs. Lake picked up the phone and called every aunt, and every uncle.

 PTSD

They set up a meeting at an aunt’s house.  Not only did every aunt and uncle show up, but my sister B.J. and her husband were there too.  They were all sitting in a circle when we arrived. Mrs. Lake explained how I’d been evicted, and that she’d been caring for me ever since. She said she couldn’t imagine how I felt, and she was glad she was able to help. She smiled as she spoke, and she kept that beautiful smile on her face, as my family thanked her.  I’m sure she expected someone to say they’d take me in.  That didn’t happen. They passed a hat, filling it with money for Mrs. Lake, as a thank you for her troubles. She must have been shocked, but she just kept smiling. The meeting was over.  I left more dazed than I was when I walked in.     

I was traumatized by that family meeting. For many years, family gatherings were difficult for me. I’d feel sheer terror. I was always waiting for that terrible blow, or for the hat to be passed around in front of my face, making me feel worthless. Year after year, I showed up at family reunions, parties, and holiday gatherings. I relived that awful day, over, and over, but I smiled through the pain until the feelings passed. Sometimes I started reliving it on the way to the gathering, or the night before.  Nobody knew what I was going through. I showed up because I loved and needed my family. I forgave them. My cousins knew nothing about my ordeal. And my aunts, uncles and sister didn’t know they’d almost killed me that day.

 There will be no Christmas...

My friend Sherri came home from college for Thanksgiving and Christmas. The holiday season brought unspeakable pain to me. It marked the anniversary of my mother’s passing. I stood around, saying very little. I was an outsider. The Lake’s friends and relatives were eating, drinking, exchanging gifts, and just enjoying each other. I couldn’t wait for it to be over. I was glad when Sherri went back to college. I loved my dear friend, but when she was around, my feelings surfaced, and a sense of worthlessness, embarrassment and humiliation overwhelmed me.  She was my mirror.  When I saw her, I knew we were no longer equal.  I was a homeless urchin, sleeping in her bed.  I lived at the mercy of her parents. I was troubled. She had a bright future and a family. She could laugh. She could dance. She could smile.   

  
Growing Up

Mrs. Lake never asked me to leave, but after Christmas, I felt it was time to go. I was only eighteen years old, and damaged, but I wanted my own bed – my own room.  I didn’t want to be an outcast anymore. I realized I’d never recapture the life I had before my mother passed away.  I was growing up.     

 That winter, I struck out.  I found a room in a cheap, old, Single Room Occupancy Hotel (S.R.O) on the Upper West Side. The manager was reluctant to rent to me – he could see I was just a kid. So, I lied about my age, and he never asked for ID. He took my money. I rented a single room, no bath.

My room smelled stale. The wallpaper was faded. The carpet was threadbare, and the curtains were old.  I had a small refrigerator, a hot plate, a bed, and a television. I seemed to be the youngest tenant among a ragtag group of people who all appeared to be down on their luck.

The bathroom made my skin crawl, and having to share it with an old woman made it worse.  The tiles were cracked and dirty, the shower curtain was moldy, and there were always dead roaches on the floor. A housekeeper was responsible for keeping it clean, but no amount of scrubbing could remove years of soap scum and gunk. I know. I tried. I felt sick every time I showered, and I cringed if the toilet seat was still warm when I sat down.  I hated it.  

I was living in a disgusting environment that was not meant for a young girl like me, but I learned to deal with it. Because when I closed the door to my room, it was all mine. And that felt good.  

I went to work every day, and kept to myself. I got locked out of my room a few times, because I couldn’t pay the rent.  I was still working on temporary jobs, and I was struggling.   

When they locked me out, I'd go stay with my daddy, who was living with a woman in Harlem. Her name was Mrs. Palmer.  She wore shabby dresses and loved to drink beer, but she was very nice to me.  I got dinner and a place to stay, until I saved up enough to pay the rent at the hotel.  Mrs. Palmer was my father’s drinking buddy, and more. I didn’t care. For the time I was there, they were my parents, and that was heartwarming.

 Still I Rise*

 After nearly three years in the S.R.O, and six months at my sister B. J’s house, I got my first apartment.  It was a tiny studio in a tenement in Hell's Kitchen, but it was mine.   At twenty-one years of age, I was starting a new chapter in my life.

My losses, including my secret, still haunted me.  I had no mother.  My father was a shell of a man.  Later, he was found dead, lying in a dark, dirty alley somewhere in Harlem, like a bum. He was only in his fifties. I was inconsolable at his funeral.

Me, at about 21.

I held on to memories of the sweet, honorable man who raised me.  And I cherished the good years I had, growing up with two loving parents, and my sisters, before it all fell apart.  Those memories got me through tough years when I had no support. Sherri moved to another state, but we remain friends, for life. Her mother, Mrs. Lake, will forever be in my heart and mind. Over time, my sister B.J. and I bonded, and we were inseparable, until her passing. She was my rock, and I was hers.  But only time would ease the pain of my insurmountable losses.

Some family members predicted that without parents, I would spiral downward, and never make anything of my life. I knew better.  A college degree, a fine career, artistic expression, and healthy relationships followed.  I kept reaching higher, and higher. And I’m still climbing.

 *Dr. Maya Angelou