Category: 15 Min Read

15 Min Read, Family, Parenting, Re-parenting, Relationships, Robert Samuel Walker, Spirituality

I am Regina Lynette. I am a Baptist Christian. Probably.

Regina Lynette

I was raised in the Missionary Baptist Church. At eight years old I publicly made my confession, was water-baptized, received communion, and was offered the right hand of fellowship with membership into my childhood home church, from here on out to be called NNMBC. About nine years later that church split, let’s just say over issues with follow-on leadership. I would spend the next year of my Christianity absorbing religious teachings with an unbelievable and relatively new zeal in a new church, from here on out to be called NBMBC. Later, I would start cautiously wandering away from what I was taught, testing ideas about my religion, and finding out some truths for myself.

Daddy was my trusted personal religious leader and when I had questions about anything regarding religion – ours and others – I trusted him to be completely honest in his responses. I would go to Daddy before anyone else because I knew that what he had to say would be based on experience or from his own research and education, and that he would refer me to texts that would support his answers. I also trusted him to honestly admit if he didn’t know something and that he would do the research and get back to me or encourage me to do the research with him. Even though some of what he would say would fall in the category of dogma, his delivery was never dogmatic and always logical (despite religion or spirituality not being what I would define as logical). But then I went to college, and everything went to hell. Okay, everything didn’t go to hell, and I can’t even justify that level of melodrama here, so, I take it back. But college was the start of curiosity, circumstance, and independence taking me along a slightly different path than I ever imagined.

This is Regina wearing the suit that would become my “Communion Sunday” suit. How I never spilled grape juice on my all white was miraculous.

The first year of college, I partnered up with a new friend who matched my particular freshman demographic in my search for a church family in the town where I attended school. We were both female, away from home, and part of the 5% minority population of the university. One of the things that created a firmer bond early in our friendship was that we were both daughters of black Baptist preachers who needed to find a church to attend regularly while we were away from home, and we believed it should be a Baptist church. We were glad to be on this search together and found we wanted similar things from a church-home-away-from-home. Unfortunately and universally we found, beyond doctrine and styles of worship, that we didn’t feel welcome in those churches. We were our best Baptist Christian selves and were snubbed by those who we expected to welcome us to the family and offer the right hand of fellowship. We dutifully stood as visitors, reciting the most relevant details of what I like to call our “Christian resumes”, offering ourselves to be cradled in the arms of the churches and we didn’t find a place that felt like home as we hoped. After reporting back to our families our lack of success and the new routes we planned to take – seeking Christian churches of other denominations – neither of our families were particularly happy but they trusted us to make the right decision (which was simply joining a church). It wasn’t terribly long after we started with this new plan that we landed at a charismatic church – House of God I believe was the official denomination. This church will be referred to as BHOG going forward.

I didn’t know much about the charismatic churches at that time and had to be brought up to speed on the charismatic denominations. To shorten my learning curve, those who knew I grew up in Memphis likened House of God to the Church of God In Christ. I had been curious about the Church of God In Christ forever. In my ignorance, it was the only church that I would consider charismatic (even though I didn’t get that vocabulary until I was an adult) and therefore stood alone as a strange but intriguing group of Christians. When I was growing up, Memphis was where their official leadership & headquarters was located and the place where they held a large annual conference. I knew it as “the saints coming to town” or “the COGIC coming for conference”. I wouldn’t understand that COGIC was an acronym for the Church of God In Christ until I was a little older so it sounded more like an affliction than an affiliation, and is partly why I seldom use the acronym today, even in writing. The other thing sparking my curiosity as a child about the Church of God In Christ was that Daddy and my siblings from his first wife were involved in that church for a period of time and something went terribly wrong because they spoke about the church with some unpleasantness that I don’t want to give a label. I know the story from a couple of points of view but each of them experienced it in their own way and I can’t articulate their feelings and don’t want to label them. But the point is I was always curious about the Church of God In Christ. And because the pastor of my NBMBC came from the Church of God In Christ I was exposed to certain influences that made for a more energetic style of worship than I had been accustomed.

As I said earlier, curiosity (about charismatic churches and styles of worship), circumstances (feeling terribly unwelcome in the local Baptist churches and incredibly valued in a charismatic church), and independence (more on my own than I wanted to be) led me to BHOG, ready to join under Watch Care. Watch Care was a way of joining a church under temporary circumstances – being away from home at college – so that we’d have a spiritual leader, spiritual family, and could fulfill our Christian obligations and rituals for the duration of the temporary relocation. That’s my own definition by the way, based on my experience at the time. The process of joining a church under Watch Care included presenting a letter from the pastor of your home church (NBMBC) to the Watch Care pastor (BHOG) and then finding out if you were “accepted” which, as long as there was no issue regarding beliefs about baptism (water and immersion) and you came to an understanding of where your tithes were going, you would generally be “accepted”. What I was unprepared for was that my pastor (NBMBC) would outright refuse to write me a letter because, as he explained, he’d spent time in the Church of God In Christ which to him was equivalent to BHOG and I had no clue what I was getting myself into. I found this a bit irrational and not only insufficient but also an unacceptable explanation, so I decided to go to Daddy. He was not my pastor, but he was the assistant pastor at NBMBC; the person who responded to my tugs on his heartstrings; and the person whose guidance, for me, would trump anyone else’s. I would explain all this to BHOG so that I would be “accepted”. Unfortunately it was one of the few times that Daddy hid behind a very weak excuse, refusing to write a letter because he wasn’t officially my pastor. But I knew it was because he didn’t support my choice of church. He did believe in order and that it was my pastor’s place to write the letter, but if he’d felt differently about the church I’d chosen, he would have written the letter and that would have been the end of it. So, with no possibilities of getting a letter, I approached the BHOG pastor and before I could even start to explain that I couldn’t get a letter, he told me that he never expected that I’d get a letter and that if I was still interested in joining his church, he’d give me a modified version of the process which combined regular membership orientation with Watch Care orientation. And he was careful to explain to me that my tithes were expected to go to BHOG and not NBMBC.

This was the last Sunday that I attended BHOG This is on the steps of the new building they moved to just before I graduated college.

While in college I took two religious studies courses while having “left” my home church and denomination for a “new” church and denomination. It was so interesting learning academically about so many other religions and this was the first time I began to embrace all the Abrahamic religions and became unusually fascinated by the Wiccan studies. I’d determined that if I had been born with absolutely no religious belief set and sought out my own by studying them all, I probably would be Wiccan. It would be years, literally over a decade, before I would openly share that with Christians who felt invested in my religious path. It didn’t go over well but at least I wasn’t met with rescue efforts because by then I was certain that I was going to be a Christian for life.

Daddy got sick when I had about two years left in my college career. He was struggling with a cancer diagnosis, and he was nearly 80 years old. As the possibility of his death felt almost tangible, I took my prayer requests to my BHOG church family. I didn’t feel I had a place at NBMBC anymore except on paper and my NBMBC pastor was in jail much of this time anyway. (Yes, I’m going to leave that right there for now and I can’t promise I’ll revisit it with any significance.) And so my BHOG family supported me and prayed with me and believed with me for Daddy’s healing. While I prayed for his healing, I also began grieving him. I had no doubt that God would hear my prayer, but I also didn’t want Daddy to suffer simply for the sake of my not wanting to let him go. After some time Daddy was effectually healed of the cancer but his body was a wreck from the treatment. Not to mention, as assistant pastor at NBMBC he took on the responsibility of managing the church in my pastor’s absence. He fell into a vicious cycle of taking care of the church until he would get sick and be admitted to the hospital. He’d recover somewhat and head back to the church to start the cycle all over again. I was infuriated. All along I had begged my NBMBC pastor not to make Daddy the assistant pastor because he was in his 70s and to get some more preachers at the church. My NBMBC pastor was not in agreement with what I thought was quite logical – having someone who is twice your age be your second in command was impractical to say the least and stupid to say the most. Don’t you want someone who can take on the torch after you’re gone? And hadn’t we as a church just struggled with the idea that my NNMBC pastor had to be “sat down” by the parishioners because he was too old and didn’t want to let go of pastoring? I mean if you are of the opinion that there is such a thing as “too old”, why would anyone who was over 70 years old be in position to takeover the church? I appreciated that he regarded Daddy as a wise advisor – the only reason he gave me for his choice – but I disagreed that Daddy needed any responsibility for the actual running of the church. I digress, but only a bit. My experiences, disappointments, and other slights from NBMBC (along with the ones from NNMBC that I haven’t mentioned) began to change the way I viewed what it meant to be a Christian.

After Daddy’s cancer was in remission and while he was sick from the treatment, I continued with my grieving. I felt he wouldn’t be with me much longer – even though I still had ideas that he’d at least see 90 – and I needed to be ready to let him go. The only problem with my acceptance that he was nearing the end of his life is that my BHOG family didn’t listen to me and continued to pray for something I was no longer believing for or wanted. And my confidences were betrayed – with the best intentions of caring for me – so my trust in them faltered. Daddy died during my last semester of college and while my BHOG family cared for me during my grief more than any other spiritual family, I felt unseen and therefore, though it sounds extreme, no longer loved or safe. I remember being asked to stand at BHOG during the Sunday evening service held the same night I returned to college from having attended Daddy’s funeral. I went because I didn’t want to be alone with my grief and my religion was supposed to be the thing that held me up and strengthened me and would help me finish my college degree. My BHOG pastor said something about how impressive it was that I was at church because it said something about my commitment to the church – not being lazy or using my travel to bury my father as an excuse to not make it to church – and that was the end of my time at BHOG even though I would not officially leave until I graduated.

I’m not headed to church here, but I don’t have any post-college church pictures so, next best thing.

Just before I graduated college I began isolating myself from the church in general, beginning with intentionally not attending church regularly. I remember the first Sunday I purposely didn’t go to church. I sat on my bed and read the newspaper and felt so free. I very specifically felt exactly free. People came by to check on me after service – because as I said I truly had a church family – and I was a bit defiant with some, testing their ministry to me. I remember one thing I thought truly trivial yet hypocritical was that in all the years I had heard “come as you are” in every church, it apparently didn’t apply to me and no one could even hear the contradiction in what they were telling me. What I heard was that based on what I call my religious resume, I was no longer in the category of folks who could just come as they were, and if I didn’t attend church in my regular “uniform” (which at the time was a suit or dress, control top pantyhose, and heels) then I would be inappropriately dressed. Offering that I couldn’t afford dry-cleaning was not met with an offer of financial help but with encouragement to just find a way. I maintained it should have been acceptable for me to wear jeans to church. All of these tiny contradictions and small hypocrisies, the prophe-lies* and the manipulations, and all the things that humans tend to do to anything they put their hands on all wrapped up into one big trauma, and it wore on the ties I had to the religion I was born into and loved – Missionary Baptist Christianity. Add to that the season of Rebel Gina which followed college graduation – my seemingly unpredictable, irrational and consistent anger along with a uniform of olive green and black – and I essentially walked away from the church. It is most important that I am clear that I walked away from the church (the building and the fellowship) – not my beliefs. While I agree that I am instructed not to forsake the fellowship, I maintain that I should be particular in choosing who is in the fellowship.

Tons of words again. Have we made this a three-parter? Probably.

I am Regina Lynette. I am a Baptist Christian. Probably.

*Prophe-lies, pronounced ‘prof-uh-lize’, is a lie, typically that serves another’s own agenda, that is shared under the cover of a prophecy.

15 Min Read, Donna Maria Thomas-Walker, Family, Parenting, Robert Samuel Walker, Spirituality

I am Regina Lynette. I am a Baptist Christian. Maybe.

Regina Lynette

I was born a Missionary Baptist Christian. Okay, not exactly. That technically goes against the teaching of the Missionary Baptist Church – if you believe the way to salvation and fellowship is by confession of Jesus as Lord and Savior and water (immersion) baptism. Or should I say I was born a Missionary Baptist Parishioner? Confession and baptism was a requirement for membership now that I think about it so that still isn’t quite accurate. At any rate, the reason I feel like I was born a Missionary Baptist Christian is because that was the church family that raised me and it is the legacy of my paternal family. I was about three years old when my parents joined the church that would become my childhood home church. Because I don’t want to name the churches I’ll be talking about, I’m going to use acronyms so you can keep it straight. So my “childhood home church” will be referred to as NNMBC, and if you were a character in this part of my life you’ll also know what my system is but, oh well. I attended, was nourished by, and belonged to NNMBC from about three to 17 and a half. I remember this so specifically because it was not my choice to leave that church. I literally went out of town for a summer as a member of that church and came back and was handed a card stating that I was a charter member of another church. The last year I physically lived in Memphis, the last year of my grade school education, was spent at a new church, the NBMBC. The other reason this is stamped indelibly on my brain is that I was so looking forward to being recognized as a high school graduate and receiving a leather-bound Bible with my name engraved in gold lettering on the cover from NNMBC. Thankfully, it also meant something to the right people and I was invited to the celebration despite my change in membership, and I received a Bible that I cherish and still own.

Daddy was my religious leader until his death and in some ways after his death. No, he wasn’t ever officially my Pastor, but he was the only person I trusted with my religious questions. I was born into a legacy of Baptist preachers and deacons (and ushers and choir members). I don’t know everything I would like to know about Daddy’s spiritual journey, but I know his father was a Baptist preacher and that he later became a Baptist preacher. I know that for a time Daddy was affiliated with the Church of God In Christ and that he returned to the Missionary Baptist Church before I was born. Daddy was relatively tolerant of most Christian denominations in very general terms but took the adage “as for me and my house” very seriously as head of household so we were all Missionary Baptist Christians in his house. This legacy and childhood environment is why I say that I was born a Missionary Baptist Christian. The reason I even mention being born a Missionary Baptist Christian so specifically is that I, true to my Wandering Spirit, sort of wandered off in other directions over the course of my spiritual journey but found myself back in the Missionary Baptist Church, then by choice.

Look at those long legs – no wonder everyone thought I would be tall. They just didn’t know I got all the leg I was going to have at about that age.

Mommy and her family had a less strict and less specific religious legacy. I don’t believe her mother nor her aunt – the primary women who raised her – were affiliated with any religion in particular as adults because they didn’t go to church (at least during the years I knew of them). However, her maternal grandfather was a part of the United Methodist Church as was she and my siblings, for roughly ten years that I can confirm. When Daddy joined NNMBC, Mommy and my teenaged siblings had to be water-baptized (full immersion) to join the church because through the United Methodist Church they had been “sprinkled”. Joining NNMBC required confession (Jesus is God’s only begotten son, our Lord and Savior), water baptism (full immersion), and communion (along with the right hand of fellowship).

As far back as I can remember, Daddy talked to me about Jesus and God in such a way that I felt they could have been distant family members just as my maternal family was – I was a tween before I met any of my mother’s family. Daddy took my confession at a super young age at home and then began explaining to me the formal rituals that needed to take place. The first problem I told my parents I had with this formal process was walking to the front of the church while the “doors of the church were open”, meaning the time of service just after the sermon when the invitation to come to the front and make your confession was extended. I was painfully and awkwardly shy in any public setting and telling an entire sanctuary of folks what I believed and that I wanted to be baptized was crippling. I thought maybe Daddy could just pass the message on for me. The second problem I told them – because they never accepted my shyness as a barrier to this or anything – was my fear of being completely submerged in water. They tried a few things at home to try and get me over it but when they saw the level of my fear of the water, Mommy persuaded me that swim lessons would be a fun activity. Unfortunately, they didn’t “take” and I still can’t swim, however, I learned to be okay with my head under water and that was enough for a baptism in my parents’ book. They were certain that I understood my confession, had a strong desire to be a Christian and be assured of salvation (going to heaven after death), and that it was time for me to push past the fears that held me back.

This is Gina on her way to church. My friends would later say I looked like Sophia Petrillo (Golden Girls), in my suit skirt almost under my arm pits, holding on to my white pocket book.

When I was eight years old Mommy and Daddy chose a Sunday that I was going to make my confession and then be baptized, and announced to me that this was happening. I was terrified but I knew there was no other way around it. Mommy had invited a couple of friends to come and be there when I made my confession and for the baptism that would take place the following Sunday. Fear would not be tolerated with people watching. I was sick to my stomach the entire service thinking about walking to the front of the church with everyone watching me and having to speak in the microphone. Mommy and Daddy had practiced the questions with me – this was a ritual after all – to be sure I answered correctly. I walked to the front of the church, forcing my head up high because Mommy told me not to do the thing where I walked with my head down so low that my back was hunched over. As I neared the altar headed toward that red upholstered chair I would have to sit on, I could hear mumblings of people who were moved – one way or another – by what it meant that I was participating in this sacred ritual. I was beginning to feel better because it was almost over. After answering the questions loudly into the microphone as Mommy instructed me – because I can be a serious low-talker, almost whispering – it was announced that I would be baptized the following Sunday, and the congregation celebrated while I all but ran back to my mother. All of the ladies – Mommy, her guests, and my godmother were teary-eyed.

I made one request for my support system for the full-immersion water baptism – that Daddy be the one who baptized me. I needed Daddy because of how I trusted him with my life. Only Daddy would be the one I trusted not to let me drown – even though I had never seen or heard of anyone drowning in the baptismal pool. I actually loved baptism Sundays because the red curtain that kept it hidden was wide open and I loved the artwork featuring White-Jesus on the back wall. It seemed to light up the entire sanctuary for me and I was always so happy about the people being baptized and securing there places in the Christian family and in heaven.

This is Little Miss Walker, so named by the members of NNMBC. I absolutely loved this dress.

The Sunday I was baptized there were 22 candidates for baptism. This was an insane number of children and adults being baptized at once and the result of a week-long revival where the invitation for salvation was extended every night. I wore a swimsuit and swim cap under my white robe and white cap that was the “dipping uniform”, and I was second in line to be baptized. This was the first time I remembered ever seeing three men in the pool – because of the number of candidates for baptism they would alternate dips. The other very important person involved in my baptism didn’t have to be asked to participate, but announced that she would be there behind the scenes with me before I was dipped. There in the back, keeping order and directing the candidates for baptism was my godmother, Lucy Bell. She touched my shoulders, adjusted my caps, and reassured me several times while we waited for the ceremony to start. I can still feel her hands on me and smell her. I asked her to make sure the men got it right – that Daddy knew when to step up for me – and I rested assured that she would make everything alright. When it was my turn she took me up the stairs toward the pool and held on to me as I stepped down into the water until Daddy took my hand. He said those words, after some scriptural preamble that served as a countdown to me – “Now, I baptize you my sister, in the name of the Father (3), in the name of the Son (2), and in the name of the Holy Spirit. (1)” And I was taken down under the water, unable to resist Daddy’s strength even though my reflex was resistance, and popped back up with my nose burning from the water. I was rushed off into the arms of another familiar usher, one who was teary-eyed and who gave me some instruction on where to go and find my mother who’d stayed in the sanctuary to witness my baptismal and then rushed behind the scenes to dry me and change my wet clothes. True to myself, I didn’t get the instruction quite right and was found in the wrong place freezing and dripping on the floor where my Sunday school class was taught. Mommy, also teary-eyed, commented on how the swim cap didn’t protect my ring curls quite enough and then sent me back to the sanctuary where I sat near the Mother Board. They made me feel safe and I recall feeling incredibly grateful to officially be a member of NNMBC, to finally have secured my entry to heaven after death, and to have become a part of the whole Christian family. And finally I would be allowed to have communion.

I describe my baptism here in painful details to demonstrate a few important points. I want to impress upon you the level of my devotion and belief in Christianity at a young age. I was very serious about this thing and very well supported by my parents. I want to share the fear that threatened to hold me back and the levels that my parents went through to help me push past it. And I want to explain why I disagree with the people who believe that only an adult can make a decision to accept Christ in their hearts. I know that it is very possible for a young child to accept Christianity with even more clarity than some adults. And even though I won’t change the mind of someone with that belief, I know I don’t need to have an adult do-over baptism because mine was not for my parents, but for myself.

Here I am, sat atop the television console as if I am a decorative item, to pose for a Sunday morning photo.

Even though there are already a ton of words on the page, I have more to say. Should I make this a two-parter? Maybe.

I am Regina Lynette. I am a Baptist Christian. Maybe.

15 Min Read, Donna Maria Thomas-Walker, Family, grief, Mental Health, Parenting, The Mothers, What's In A Name?

Looking for Dorothy, I wanted to find a kindred spirit.

Regina Lynette

I am Regina Lynette, daughter of Donna Maria, daughter of Dorothy Lee, daughter of Odetta, daughter of Peoria. And I have been searching for myself in my mothers’ gardens. Even though I didn’t want to find myself in Dorothy for a long time, getting to know her as an ancestor has helped me to see some seeds of myself in her garden – because of Dorothy I am predictably unpredictable, and have a wandering spirit.

Dorothy Lee Thomas (Terry) was my grandmother. She was never known as grandmother but as Dorothy to Mommy’s children. Her given name is Dorothy Lee. Her maiden name is Thomas. And her married name was Terry. I don’t know if she ever married again after Warren Thomas Terry – never known as grandfather and causing some confusion with his middle name always listed and the same as my grandmother’s maiden name. She was called Dorothy. She was called mean. She was called unstable. And she was called unpredictable. Later I would know she was called a free-spirit and she was called independent.

I had a baby doll that I slept with from my first memories until she fell apart. I named her Sleepy Baby because she was sleeping, and she was a baby. I was never creative with naming my inanimate objects – my favorite teddy bear is named Bear. Sleepy Baby was all I knew of Dorothy for years, because the baby doll was a gift from her, and I remember Daddy telling me so. I don’t believe I ever met my Dorothy. I don’t have a lot of details about the last time she was in Memphis visiting the family but when Mommy was found chain-smoking and rocking in her bed, Daddy announced that Dorothy didn’t have to go home but she had to get the hell out of there. He drove her to the bus station and then Dorothy was gone. Mommy is the one who called her mother unpredictable most often. Most of the memories she shared were about times that started out happy and ended horrifically, sometimes ending in some kind of violent behavior.

This is the only photograph I have with Sleepy Baby. Not sure how long I thought holding her by her feet was the best idea. I have memories of rocking her to sleep in my arms before I went to bed myself.

Sleepy Baby was a doll made of a plush pale pink stuffed onesie with a pale plastic face, pursed pink lips, and closed eyelids. Her onesie was hooded, and yellow tufts of hair peeked out from underneath the seam. The pale pink satin ribbon was never tied in a bow as it obviously was when I got her but dangled the way ribbons on pigtails dangle at the end of the school day.

The vast majority of what I know about Dorothy consists of a timeline of events from genealogical research and imagining her reactions and responses to life events through a filter of my own experiences.

Dorothy was born on Halloween in 1925 to parents who were presumably married at the time, ages 16 and 22. She was the middle child of “stair-step” daughters – her older sister was just about 15 months older, and the baby was just about 13 months younger. Her baby sister died at about 6 months old. She and her older sister were just toddlers at the time, so I imagine the baby was just a family story for her. But it was one that she never forgot. We found a list of “characters” in Mommy’s baby book where Dorothy listed family members and Essie Mae was included. I think in a more positive series of events she would have been considered the family historian, always writing long notes on the back of photographs and in Mommy’s baby book. Dorothy would lose her mother when she was just 14 years old and then go on to live with her father and his aunt for at least the next two or three years.

Dorothy Lee, mother of Donna Maria, grandmother of Regina Lynette.

This photograph was taken during Dorothy’s high school years – I believe she attended Booker T. Washington in Memphis – and is the best photograph I’ve seen of her.

Dorothy has posed for at least one other professional photograph that I’ve seen and sent a few snapshots in letters. She wrote on the backs about how bad she looked or that she had been ill in the photographs.

I’ve compared my high school photographs with Dorothy’s trying to find myself in her face.

Regina Lynette, daughter of Donna Maria, daughter of Dorothy Lee

Here’s a picture of me in high school, wearing Fashion Fair Cherry Wine lipstick just because it was Mommy’s signature color.

Please excuse those ends. My ends hadn’t been trimmed for about 5 years and I was taking off 3 inches at a time that summer to avoid a short cut that I was not allowed to get. A few months later I turned 18, my father’s age of hair-cutting consent, and chopped it down to a chin-length bob – best decision ever.

From my own experience of losing my mother at age 13, I can assume that Dorothy was wounded emotionally in a way that only a girl-child who loses her mother in early teens can understand. I know what it is to be a Motherless Child and to be shattered by that loss.  Did Dorothy have suicidal thoughts when her mother died like I did? Did she make a feeble attempt at killing herself, wanting to be wherever it was that her mother was like I did? Did Dorothy have the same “slips” in her mental stability – and by “slips” I mean instances where your mind plays tricks on you rather than remaining in the rational and logical – that I did? Maybe she sat at the front door waiting to see headlights that meant her mother was coming home from an evening errand as many times as I did. She might have seen an usher at a church she was visiting who looked like her mother and imagined that she was back and would explain how she came back to tell her that she was in witness protection and had to fake her death. If Dorothy had any strong identity with a parent, it was likely with her mother and the loss would cause her to struggle going forth. Did the family worry about her yet spin out because they had no solutions for their own grief, much less hers like my family? I bet it was a critical break in Dorothy’s life that affected all the days of the rest of her life, and likely the first one of many.

I know that Dorothy sang well even though I never heard her. She sang in talent shows and was asked to join a male singing group when they wanted to add a female voice. If I remember correctly, this was The Platters – she was dating one of them – and I suppose this was before they added Lola Taylor. The dates don’t match up to the story in my head so maybe it wasn’t The Platters but whatever the group, as the story stands, I can imagine Dorothy might have gained some fame from joining this musical group. She wasn’t allowed to join them – Daddy Rod didn’t let her go – and I wonder could this have been the cause of a second “slip” in Dorothy’s mental stability. She probably lost that boyfriend and a dream of singing all in one single blow. This is the last time I’m aware of hearing her pursuit of a singing career and what a knock-out punch it must have been to have a dream snatched away from you. I do believe this happened shortly after her mother’s death and before her daughter was born but I have no idea of the dates to confirm. It’s exciting to know that Dorothy performed in talent shows all around the city of Memphis and heartbreaking to know that she wasn’t able to pursue a dream of a singing career. If a dream deferred causes the heart to be sick, what in the world does a dream denied cause? Another “slip” in Dorothy’s mental stability, I believe.

I was in second grade when Dorothy resurfaced for a matter of months until her death. This little girl had lost both her grandmothers and was about to gain a great-aunt and an uncle.

This is the first time I visited my “new” great-aunt, uncle, and a distant cousin in California. It was shortly after Dorothy’s death which effectively ended Mommy’s estrangement from her family, though I don’t think Dorothy was involved in the cause for the estrangement.

I imagine Dorothy as a wounded child who never found significant healing from her disappointments and the bitter side of the unfairness of life, causing her to act out sometimes. I believe Dorothy did the best she could often finding that it wasn’t enough, and maybe that made her stop trying. And in her hurting state, Dorothy probably did more than her fair share of hurting other people. Does this mean that if she had a different relationship with her father or with her sister or with her first husband that she would have been kinder? Maybe. Maybe not. If she had a successful singing career instead of a teenage pregnancy and unsuccessful marriage, would she have been stable? Maybe. Maybe not. If her mother had not died too young at age 31, would she have been more predictable? Maybe. Maybe not. And broken hearts don’t all heal the same way.

Because I want to find a kindred spirit in my grandmother, I look for myself in her garden and when you search for something you’re likely to find something – whether or not it’s truly the thing you were seeking. I’ve been called independent, like Dorothy, and I imagine I plucked those seeds from her garden. I’ve been called a free-spirit (even though I’m not sure I agree), like Dorothy, and I imagine some of those seeds came from Dorothy. I’ve been called mean and I’ve hurt others when I was hurting, like Dorothy. I’ve been called unstable, like Dorothy, and live with a Bipolar II Disorder diagnosis, unlike Dorothy. But my favorite and the one I’ve massaged the most is that I’ve been called unpredictable, predictably unpredictable to be exact.

My former college roommate called me predictably unpredictable, showing no surprise when I did or said something that seemed contradictory to my typical choices. Yes, I could be unpredictable in a way that negatively affected my loved ones and my close ones, but thankfully it’s often more benign. Some of my atypical choices receive a response similar to, “I would never have thought you’d ever want that one” or “I can’t believe you actually did that.” And generally, it’s about things like the time I sang at The Apollo Theater, when I couldn’t give up coffee and then just because it was a Saturday I lost all desire for it, or the time I called the floral print mug with a gold handle perfect. Why in the world would I jump up on stage at The Apollo Theater? I don’t sing well, even though I love to and give it all I’ve got. It was a fake show during a tour of the theater, but not something you can expect me to ever do. It was a once in a lifetime thing, and my hair was sassy, and I was enthralled by the fact that I could touch the stump for good luck, jumping on the same stage where Ella Fitzgerald first sang. I had spent my life trying not to become addicted to coffee but it became hard to start mornings without it. And then I woke up one Saturday and didn’t want any. It would be at least three days before I noticed that I didn’t want any coffee – even with the smell of fresh hot coffee brewed with cinnamon each morning – and that was that. That floral mug would have been the perfect balance to all the things I find rustic and casual. And it’s probably the only fancy mug I’ll ever want.

I am Regina Lynette, daughter of Donna Maria, daughter of Dorothy Lee, daughter of Odetta, daughter of Peoria.

15 Min Read, Donna Maria Thomas-Walker, Family, Mental Health, Parenting, Teaching, The Mothers

Looking for Donna, I found the seeds of my life’s dream in her garden.

Regina Lynette

I am Regina Lynette, daughter of Donna Maria. And I have been searching for myself in my mothers’ gardens. It turns out that Mommy made me want to be a good wife, a great mother, and to homeschool my children while effectively managing my household.

Mommy was strong and independent, courageous and strategic, and determined to make her life better after every choice that she considered less than ideal. Even though she chose to marry a physically abusive man in her very early 20s, she made a better choice and left him. Even though my older siblings were latchkey kids far too young and were basically unsupervised after school because she was working several jobs to provide (food, shelter, and a Christmas performance at levels that I would never experience), she was heavily involved in my education and I was never home alone after school. I had assistance with homework and projects, and she planned out my educational path up to high school graduation with the understanding that college would follow. I had my marching orders as far as my education was concerned and I learned from her the power of demonstrating and documenting your intellect. By the way, I would never have known my older siblings didn’t have the same hands-on support from Mommy – they both exceeded my educational achievements leaving me to wonder if I would have been a disappointment to my parents.

Mommy had a natural aptitude to many things and though she dropped out of school after her first year of college, she was very intelligent. Her lack of a degree (and whatever other influences) stressed to her the importance of my educational goals, which she infused in my every thought and action from my earliest memories. She praised me and made me feel like I was the smartest person in the world with every academic or intellectual achievement no matter how small. She sent me to daycare (I didn’t do pre-school) with her own learning assignments for me – things she wanted me to already have achieved before starting kindergarten and considering I would be older than the kids in my classes (my December birthday meant I started Kindergarten at 6) she wanted me to stand out. Thankfully, the teachers and caretakers took her seriously and I was learning things no other kid my age (in my educational bubble) knew. I was reading at age three and she seemed to believe that meant I knew every word that existed. Car rides were filled with my reading every word visible – states on license plates, signs, street names, and everything in between and out. When I pronounced the ‘T’ in Chevrolet or the last “S” in Arkansas, she giggled, corrected me and we had a whole conversation about words that had silent letters – which I thought made absolutely no sense. She always tried to teach me grammar and spelling hints or rules if it applied to whatever on-the-spot learning occurred while running errands.

Me at three. God was merciful with those edges over the years.
He allowed me to keep ’em and they’re pretty strong, but they won’t lay down for all the relaxer, hot combs, and edge control in the world.

She took a great interest in my lessons and drilled me on concepts outside of the school curriculum – an expansion of the lessons. And when it was obvious that I was more advanced in some ways than my classmates in my neighborhood public school, she set about making a plan. I remember when she outlined her plan. She wasn’t talking to me directly but I was in the room and somehow I knew she was also telling me the plan and giving me directions. She was venting about my schools and how absurd the curriculum and teachers were and I felt intimidated – she thought I was the best – and I was at the top of my classes academically and physically (everyone thought I would surely be very tall but apparently I just got all my height early) – but I had doubts that I really was as smart as she thought I was and the idea of disappointing her worried me. She was upset that I wasn’t allowed to choose a book above my reading level in the school library so she took me to the public library for my reading where she approved of my books – which had to be above my current reading level. (She would have me read a couple pages and if I got through it too easily I had to find something harder.) She was utterly appalled when she found out I was allowed to administer spelling tests in second grade because I’d make perfect scores on the pre-tests (a quiz on a list we hadn’t been presented with or studied in class beforehand). My teacher didn’t know that with my parents I studied my whole spelling book in the first couple weeks of school, noting the words I didn’t already know and studying them. My teacher asked me how I managed a perfect score on words I supposedly had never seen before. She was disappointed to know I studied ahead of the current lesson at home – like I was cheating in some way. She proceeded to drill me on the hardest word in each lesson going forward until I missed a word. Then somehow she seemed both pleased that I missed a word and that I knew almost all of the words (but how could I know what she was feeling since she didn’t say and I didn’t ask).

The first three years of my public school education were spent at Fairley Elementary School.

By the time I was starting third grade Mommy used someone else’s address to get me into a school that had an Optional Program (honors classes) – something another parent she knew suggested to get my foot in the door. I was tasked with checking in with my teacher on what it would take for me to be moved to an optional class as soon as possible – because another kid we knew was moved to an optional class early in the first semester and I wasn’t when she was certain I should have been. And we wouldn’t have to use someone else’s address if I was in the Optional Program so quicker was better. Mommy wrote letters to my teacher and insisted that I beg her to move me to an optional class, press her to give me an anticipated date when I could move. She even wrote to one of the teachers in the third grade optional classrooms. My second semester of third grade I was tossed into an optional classroom and suddenly my superior academic prowess dimmed significantly. The children in that class seemed eons ahead of me and they laughed when I didn’t know something while the teacher was exasperated and had no patience for me or interest in my catching up to the rest of the class. But Mommy would not be daunted – she assured me I was both worthy and able to keep up, and I did. I did it because she believed I could. In hindsight the teachers probably were annoyed with Mommy’s persistence.

At Oakshire Elementary School, I was constantly scared of failing and of achieving at the same time. In the Spelling Bee, I purposely misspelled my word because I didn’t think I should know that word. And I also didn’t want anymore pressure – I only wanted to go sit by my mother.

By this time, Mommy had planned my grade school educational path through a number of schools rated higher than my neighborhood schools on through high school graduation – I guess she was still considering colleges at the time. The only detour I made from her plan happened after fifth grade. The school system decided to take all the schools’ individual Optional Programs out and put them in one school, grades K through Freshman level (because it was Junior High rather than Middle School back then – 9th grade has since been moved to all high schools). I was tasked with checking in with my fifth-grade teacher regularly when Mommy found out about that school because the first class of students for each grade had to be recommended by a teacher. With all the schools in the system, this new school would only have two classrooms for each grade, limiting the number of students who could attend. After that first year, students would have to test into the school. Fortunately, this teacher believed in me very early on and worked along with Mommy to make sure my grades supported her recommendation. When Mommy had me ask her specifically and plainly to recommend me for the school, my teacher told me I was already on her list and she actually beamed at me.

I was proud to be in the first classes at John P. Freeman Elementary and Junior High School. My confidence in my intellect bloomed and crossed into arrogance. I also began noticing boys in 7th grade. I was driven to distraction by the smart ones. I guess you could say I came out as sapiosexual.

While I was at this new school, feeling especially smart, Mommy talked to her brother in California about his job path – which all I knew was that it had something to do with computers which sounded fun – and determined that I would follow his footsteps to getting a good job in a good industry. She had been watching me from younger years when I first saw a computer at her friend’s house. We called on one of her work friends in the days when I needed a sitter who just happened to have a computer at home that I spent hours exploring. When she saw I was excited about it she was certain computers would be my life and I got a computer with a programming book (because what small child interested in playing computer games doesn’t need to know computer programming).

Mommy died before I went to high school but with a sister working at Mommy’s designated high school for me and with the ability to continue in honors level courses there was no issue with my attending that high school. I was even wise enough to quiz my junior high guidance counselor on how to ensure I was able to attend the school so I’d be prepared – I had learned from Mommy how to make sure I was doing what I needed to get to the next level we wanted rather than allowing other people to decide what my next steps were.

I’m certain I would have continued to prosper academically if she had lived beyond my high school graduation. I probably would have continued to prosper academically in high school if my father hadn’t married my step-monster. But living with an abusive monster while emotionally abandoned by my father who had remarried before I could even get a grip on grieving my mother, and the deep depression that followed (undiagnosed) made all things school a struggle. I nearly wrecked my entire grade school academic career with my last semester of high school.

At Memphis Central High School I completed my grade school education and prepared for college, making progress on Mommy’s educational goals for me without her direct hand for the first time. I graduated with a major in Computer Science and a minor in Mathematics in high school.

I tried to follow the Computer Science educational path in college, but I remained drowning under water through all five years I was in undergrad, starting out on academic probation my second semester (thus five years in college rather than four). Eventually during the course of those five years I changed my major to one that my family found quite disappointing. Regardless of the academic struggles, I self-identified as smart and carried myself accordingly. When I didn’t know something, it upset me. Whoever introduced this idea that I didn’t know or understand would then be interviewed until they were exhausted so I could learn this thing I didn’t know, and I wanted them to provide resources to make sure I was learning the right thing. When someone assumed I didn’t know something I was arrogant. “The audacity, the unmitigated gall that you would assume I wasn’t as smart as you?” And I’d roll out a stream of information on whatever the topic was – even if I wasn’t sure about it or knew it wasn’t entirely accurate – and dare you to think less of me ever again. Those who were arrogant about it, clearly needing to assert themselves over me were usually dismissed. Those who continued to present ideas and concepts whetted my appetite for learning more and more about that topic.

By the time I graduated from The University of Tennessee at Knoxville I was exhausted with school and thought I was going to make a difference in some other child’s life, ensuring that they not only got a great education but that they enjoyed the process and made their own choices in guiding their path.

This brings me to the harvest I reaped from Mommy’s garden, seeds I’m not sure she knew she planted. She was home with me for at least half of my years guiding and supporting my educational path. I remember at a very young age determining that children needed their parents at home for them after school because you couldn’t trust their education to any school system. While I was in college, I dreamed of having babies (birthing or adopting or fostering) and homeschooling them. I crafted a learning path in college dedicated to equipping me to be a good wife, a good home manager, and a great mother – in addition to early childhood education and child development I chose courses in family systems, interpersonal communication, and literature for children. That desire is consistently in my heart, surfacing in various manifestations daily, always and unfortunately as a dream deferred. We’ll talk about how I feel about God’s apparent plans versus mine (and Mommy’s) another time.

I am Regina Lynette, daughter of Donna Maria, daughter of Dorothy Lee, daughter of Odetta, daughter of Peoria.