Category: Brothers And Sisters

5 Min Read, Brothers And Sisters, Donna Maria Thomas-Walker, Family, Holidays, Parenting, Robert Samuel Walker

Christmases to Remember

Regina Lynette

The end-of-year holidays always drove me into a frenzy as a child that my teachers, siblings, and parents all overlooked, and I am grateful they did. It was a frenzy, but it was joy filled. My siblings who lived at home with me had been away at college, returning for Thanksgiving break. Nearly every conversation in the house started with “When the kids get home…” Even I called them “The Kids” despite their being old enough (biologically) to be my parents. I found joy in every little thing – the drafty house causing the windows to fog and condensation to run was one of the most ridiculous things to find joyful but was one of the happiest additions to the ambiance.

Even though Thanksgiving itself wasn’t particularly my favorite holiday, I enjoyed certain aspects and it was always a good time overall. My siblings coming home was the best part, the marshmallows on that nasty sweet potato thing Mommy made was second, and the mac-n-cheese was third. Outside of that I loved watching Mommy set out her mismatched China and fragile water glasses that she found at a yard sale and I loved how she enjoyed decorating her table and getting us to dress up for dinner. I love seeing those plates and glasses today for that same reason. Mommy’s dressing was pretty tasty as well and generally my soft-drink restriction was relaxed for the Thanksgiving meal.

But Thanksgiving was far too short for me and mostly just served as a defining line for when Christmas, the pinnacle of the year, could start. In between Thanksgiving and Christmas is my birthday, so it would be just a few days after Thanksgiving when I started writing a countdown to my birthday whenever I had to write the date. You know, I’d write my name and December 1st on my paper and then add “eleven days until my birthday”. I wasn’t exactly making an announcement, but my glee was just oozing out through my hand to my pencil and onto the paper. My teachers sometimes commented, and it seemed they understood the level of excitement demonstrated by that simple act. I can recall that at the height of reaching my birthday, I often sat on top of my desk – if I sat at all – and for whatever reason, my teachers had patience with me. The threshold for consequences was lowered for me universally during that time. Finally, about a week later we’d go on Christmas break and “The Kids” would be coming home soon again.

Christmas was always my favorite holiday, and being the only young kid in my household, Christmas was all about me, myself, and I. We went through the basic rules of magic – Santa only came if I was good and at night when I went to sleep – and I would wake up to a glorious toy-filled room at which I was front and center.

One year Daddy was going to have to work on Christmas morning, so this once Mommy decided we’d exchange gifts early on Christmas Eve at 2PM in the afternoon. It was the only time in my entire life that opening presents early was allowed. That Christmas Eve I was entirely out of control from the moment I opened my eyes until the moment we started opening presents. I had developed a special kind of impatience just for the occasion and thankfully I had a significantly lower threshold for when inappropriate behavior was punished. At some point in the day when I reached a particularly unattractive level of unreasonableness, Mommy suggested that I pass the time by cleaning out a toybox. Who the heck wants to clean? Even as a distraction I thought she was really stretching it. But then she insisted that I find a few specific toys and play with them. It was a step up from cleaning, but I wasn’t exactly thrilled playing with old toys when shiny new ones were under the tree waiting on me to open them. But I did it because even though that discipline threshold was low, it was not inexistent, and Mommy was not one to be played with – I truly believed everything under that tree might be taken away if she deemed necessary.

While I was playing with those old toys, 2PM made its way around and we opened presents. I felt a little ashamed by my behavior by the time we opened the gifts. Why was I losing my mind when I knew exactly the time of day I’d be in that bliss? And we were opening gifts a whole day earlier than usual so why was I lamenting the wait? And when I opened the biggest gift, it had everything to do with those toys she made me find and play with. And I was a little more embarrassed. And for some reason – I guess the moments of introspection, that year was the first time I really noticed how the adults exchanged presents and that they were excited by their big gifts, too. There was a world outside of mine on Christmas and it looked pretty nice. I was further embarrassed by my behavior, and I looked out the window into the backyard to let my thoughts wash over me (staring out of windows was something I learned to do because Mommy did it whenever she was thinking). And while I was thinking, it started snowing! Yes, it was Memphis so snowing meant some little flurries that never even stuck were floating around the air, but it was technically snowing. And since we were doing Christmas at that moment, I declared it my first ever White Christmas. And I grew up just a little bit that year. It would be an extremely slow growth, but it started that Christmas.

I don’t remember the toys in question or the gifts I received that Christmas. I remember that I saw myself as selfish and impatient and rude and decided I wanted to be more generous, more patient, and kinder. And I could see that not only did Mommy plan out every detail for a great and magical Christmas, but she had taken into account that I was going to be a restless spoiled brat up until the moments I got everything I wanted.

5 Min Read, Brothers And Sisters, Donna Maria Thomas-Walker, Family, Holidays, Robert Samuel Walker

I love May 27th.

Regina Lynette

My mother went to work on a Thursday, May 27th as Donna Maria Thomas. She came back from her lunch break as Donna Maria Walker. That was the story. In my parents’ romance, lunch hours were never a time for actually eating lunch, but for things like making out on park benches and running down the street to the courthouse to get married. I remember making my parents recount the details for their 11th anniversary – that 11th anniversary was a little over 6 months before my 11th birthday. (It wouldn’t fully dawn on me that I attended that blessed event until sometime after my mother’s death I received a bible with their wedding anniversary and my birthday written together as events in the same calendar year.) I don’t remember my parents ever celebrating their wedding anniversary, but they both remembered it every year. It wasn’t strange to me that my parents didn’t celebrate their wedding anniversary – I never saw any parents doing that except on television. However, I considered it a significant milestone for my own life without any encouragement from anyone else.

Something else very special happened on a May 27th – my little sister was born on a Friday. As her mother, my Godmother, promised me she was born while I was safely at home away from the “drama”. I was nervous when she was heavily pregnant that she would suddenly go into labor like the ladies did on sitcoms and I didn’t want to be around when that happened. I remembered thinking, how perfect is it that my sister – who is not my parents’ child – was born on my parents’ anniversary? Why is that perfect? I don’t know exactly – I didn’t know then either.

May 27th has always felt like an important date for me. Maybe it was my parents’ anniversary but if I hadn’t come along when I did, how many more years beyond those 11 would they have continued their on-again, off-again romance? I used to get a kick out of the phrase “May-December Romance” because my parents were born 24 years apart and were the very definition of a May-December romance. And they got married in May. And I was born in December. And on another May 27th, I was gifted a baby sister. Yep – in my mind in those years that’s who she was to me, a gift. I knew even at age 6 to be chosen as a sister was something altogether different than being born into sisterhood. Neither is greater than the other but the intention behind the former is impossible to dismiss.

After I sent my sister birthday wishes, I decided to write about how I love May 27th. In December I explained how I hate December 26th (the day my mother died). In February I wrote about how I used to hate Valentine’s Day (the day my father died). Then I wrote about hating Mother’s Day. And Father’s Day is next month (and yes, I hate it too). So, I thought I’d throw in some of the days I have managed to love. I don’t have a lot of emotional and detailed events to share about why I love May 27th except that it’s the day that my parents came together, and the day my baby sister was presented to the world. It feels like God made that day just for me.

I love May 27th.

5 Min Read, Brothers And Sisters, Doggie Auntie, Family

I am Regina Lynette. And I am an Auntie.

Regina Lynette

I was born an auntie. My father had four grandchildren before I was born. I met two more nephews and a niece when they were born while I was still a little girl. And by the time I was thirteen the only nephew I would spend years with was born. And when I was seventeen, the only niece I would spend years with was born. My older nieces were having babies and there are three (or more) great-nieces and great-nephews I never met.

The only nephew and niece that I have spent significant time with are Sissy’s children. Her son was my mother’s first grandchild, and we were excited from the day we knew he was conceived. Unfortunately, Mommy died about two months before he was born. I spent my days and years with them, dreaming of how I would spoil them and wanted to be their favorite auntie – they have two other paternal aunties. I insisted at age thirteen that they would call me Aunt Gina and I was very invested in their day-to-day care, despite living in a different city and state for the first 10 years of my nephew’s life (the first 6 years of his sister’s life). Then I moved in with them for a few years – Rebel Gina years unfortunately – and made an effort to be what I thought they needed from an auntie. I was both playmate and caretaker. One of my favorite days with them was when we went to Burger King for kids’ meals and Rugrats watches before we went to the theater to watch the Rugrats movie. And then we sang the soundtrack all the way back home.

I lived with them again recently and I ended up being an auntie in a different way. My nephew had a German Shepherd, Simba, when we moved into the house where I live now. I was instructed to meet this dog when he was a puppy and bring him a toy because he was going to have professional training to be a guard dog and he needed to know I was included in the pack. I saw him as a puppy and when I saw him again, he was tall as me on his hind legs. I was scared to death of him until I got to know him – he was so sweet and sensitive and gentle. Came to check on me when I fell down the stairs. Got depressed when he realized he was home alone with me overnight. And kept all of us safe from harm, even from each other. And though this wasn’t their first dog, this was the first dog that treated me like an auntie. He only wanted to be with me if I had a treat – and he was constantly checking my hands and pockets for goodies (admittedly there was often something there for him). When his owner was around I was playmate, and when he wasn’t I was caretaker. I stayed on the hunt for his favorite bones and toys, managed his food intake so he stayed at a healthy weight, and took him with me for walks around the neighborhood. Then, sadly, he passed away.

Simba relaxing with one of his favorite toys on the lanai.

Later, after my nephew moved into his own place, he got a Rottweiler puppy, Juice. I didn’t want to be as involved in his life as I was Simba’s and since he didn’t officially live with us, I thought I could manage that easily. I did have to meet him as a small puppy to be known as one of the pack and after I’d bought his love, I tried to pull back a bit. I wanted to pet him for about 15 minutes when he came to visit, give him ice cubes when we were outside, and then not be bothered. Then came another Rottweiler puppy, Gin (yep, there are a pair of dogs here right now named Gin and Juice). Gin wasn’t terribly interested in the humans – Juice picked her out and she was only interested in him. I had to make friends with her for the same reason I did with Simba and Juice. And like I was with Simba, I was a #DoggieAuntie again. This time my niece also claimed her status as #DoggieAuntie.

Juice picked out Gin and here they’re getting to know each other before she came home with him.

Life happened and my nephew needed help with life which included caring for the pups. So my bond with them is growing because I am expanding my caretaker role. But they already treat me like an auntie so it’s a little more difficult with the training. They expect me to continue to be playmate. My spare time includes helping with training, feeding, walking, and poo duty which until now I’d vowed to never be involved with the things that came out of them. And I do it for my nephew. And I do it for Sissy. And I guess I do it for the dogs, too.

Gin and Juice – Best friends forever

Aunties are special creations. In every good Auntie there is a sister, a friend, and a mother. I was never able to care for and provide material things for my nieces and nephews in the way I’d hoped – their parents were all in a very different financial lane than I’ve ever been. And I always wanted to be more for my father’s grandchildren, even those who were older than I. There was always tension from our family structure and family choices and now, unfortunately, we are estranged. But I have always wanted to be a pillar when they needed it. I’ve always wanted them to have the things that they wanted. I’ve always wanted to spare them pain – even if it was a natural part of growing up that they needed to experience.

I’m not a perfect auntie. I don’t know if I’m a favorite auntie – how can you have favorites among the ones you love? And I’m not quite the auntie I set out to be. But I am a good auntie. When they need something, I do what I can to make sure they get it. When they want something, I try to get it or convince their parents to get it or pray for them to have it. And when they need to be loved, I love them like a friend and playmate, I love them like a sister, and I love them like a mother. I love being an auntie. Some days I think I was meant to be an auntie, possibly instead of being the mother I always wanted to be. Sometimes you don’t get what you want, but you get what you need.

I am Regina Lynette, Auntie.

5 Min Read, Brothers And Sisters, Donna Maria Thomas-Walker, Robert Samuel Walker, What's In A Name?

Rebel Gina

Regina Lynette

Why would I expect to behave just like all of my family? I was born “off-generation” – my father was old enough to be my grandfather. He was number 5 in a family of 15 children. The brother that I know he spent most of his happier times with was 20 years younger than he. My first cousins weren’t my friends because they were old enough to be my parents. My oldest siblings were old enough to be my parents. In fact, 3 nieces and a nephew are older than I. My youngest siblings were not my friends but my secondary care-givers as they were teenagers in the house when I was born. And because I was born into a blended family – the sole member in the Venn diagram of my family – my home culture was different than that of any of my siblings. The day-to-day norms of my father’s first family unit were different than those of my mother’s first family unit and different than those of my day-to-day norms. Why would I expect to behave just like all of my family?

Why would I expect to look just like all of my family? I was the only child between my parents. I have no other siblings with both my mother’s and my father’s genes combined. I don’t particularly look like my oldest siblings who possess half of my father’s genes and half of their mother’s genes. I don’t particularly look like my youngest siblings and we all have different fathers. My paternal grandfather was gone well before I was born and I never saw a photograph of him until I was an adult. I couldn’t find myself in his face. My paternal grandmother was around for the first 8 years of my life but I probably saw her about 8 times in that life. I couldn’t find myself in her face – she was in her 80s for all of my life which I’m sure didn’t help. I didn’t see my face in that of my paternal aunties and uncles. I didn’t look like my cousins. My maternal grandfather was essentially a question mark and as far as genetics from him he remains a question mark. A photograph was sent to me fairly recently that is unconfirmed but highly likely him and I don’t see myself in his face. My maternal grandmother was unknown to me except in a photograph and I couldn’t find myself in that picture. I didn’t find my face in my mother’s only sibling – my uncle has a different father than my mother. Why would I expect to look just like all of my family?     

Why would I expect to be the same person as all of my family? They are my tribe but I was not raised in my tribe. I was raised as if I were an only child. I was raised in a household of three people of three generations. I was raised by people who intentionally raised me with a different hand than the one they’d used to raise their older children. And I was raised in a vacuum of sorts – we were estranged from much of my family both immediate and extended. I was born in what has now been considered a sub-generation, not quite the generation before and not quite the generation after, a proud Xennial. I lived in what was considered “the country” to my maternal family and what was considered “the city” to my paternal family. And much of my life was presented to our community as a series of lies of omission. To be accepted by all the different sectors of my tribe, when necessary for us to interact, I had to imitate a person they would admire and value. Why would I expect to be the same person as all of my family?

When Mommy sent me out with Daddy alone, she told me not to be myself and to not let people see how I really act. I think I’ll just leave that right there for now.

The first years after college graduation were pretty hellish for me (and therefore everyone else around me). If rage could be a person, I was that person. Rage and fury kept my blood between a low simmer and a rolling boil all day every day. During that period of time my sister named me Rebel Gina. The first time she gave me that name she explained that she was confused by my behavior and even pointed out that I looked like I was dressed for combat – I wore Army green and black when I wasn’t wearing heather gray and black which I associated with grief, funeral clothes. My hair was short and red and wild – it was chemically relaxed but I didn’t straighten it with heat and let it dry by holding my head out the window speeding down the highways. I listened to rock music – an unofficial no-no for my family and according to what I’d been told, not intended for black people in general. I wasn’t in church every time the doors opened. In fact, I didn’t have a church home for the first time in my life though I generally attended my sister’s church at the time. And things considered New Age and Occult captured my interest. What was happening was I was experimenting with the “real” me who was screaming to be released from oppression.

I miss Rebel Gina even though she was too angry for me to embrace with joy. And Rebel Gina was not intended to be a compliment of any kind – maybe not quite an insult but it was not intended as a good name. In my rage I loved the name she gave me. It fit what was happening; I truly was rebelling against everyone and everything all day every day. If Rebel Gina wants to come back wearing graphic tees and destructed denim, teaching me how to relax, she’s welcome. If she can simply revel in the joy and charm of Regina Lynette, she’s very welcome to stay.

5 Min Read, Brothers And Sisters, Donna Maria Thomas-Walker, Mental Health, My Body, Parenting, Robert Samuel Walker, Smart and Pretty

I am a Fat Woman. And I don’t love that Fat Woman.

Regina Lynette

The women in my life during those tender years when a baby girl starts imagining what she will become when she’s older were my mother and her second child (Sissy). Mommy was 34 years old when I was born, and I was her third child. And in the end she found I had stolen her girlish figure and threw it in the trash when she wasn’t looking. To little girls imagining what she will become when she’s older, a person who hates her own body is not the person you want to become. So this little girl looked to her older sister.

Sissy was 14 years old when I was born. And what I didn’t know then but would soon realize, God didn’t design me to be my sister’s twin. And to make sure I was never confused about His intention, in His infinite wisdom and with His ultimate creative self He made us opposites in nearly every way but gender and race.

Me and Sissy

When I could see that I was already “curvier” than Sissy somewhere around age 5 (19 for her) I wanted to start dieting. Mommy was forever on a diet so I wanted to get started early so I could make sure I grew up to look like Sissy and not Mommy. Well, I don’t know what you tell a mother who understands exactly why her 5-year-old little girl wants to diet – the world was still calling her “healthy” – and also knows that it’s completely unreasonable for her 5-year-old little girl to go on a diet. It would take a couple years but unfortunately, Mommy eventually gave me her blessing and we dieted together well before my first signs of puberty. She was careful to monitor my dieting and modified it according to whatever standards she thought best and we added intentional exercise to the regular roller skating, bike riding, and running I did while playing with my friends. And I always managed to lose some weight but never in the places I wanted and never enough to keep me from being called “healthy”.

Me and Sissy

God was also constantly reminding me that I was not created in the image of Sissy. To really hammer it in that I was not her twin, He showed me just how different we would forever be. She was pregnant when I was 12 years old. In her early pregnancy, you know those weeks where your clothes are just starting not to fit but you’re not quite ready for maternity wear, was the first step toward my resignation of my fat-girl destiny. My clothes were the clothes she borrowed when her own were too tight. In case you didn’t catch it, at 12 years old, my 26-year-old pregnant sister needed to borrow my clothes. My 12-year-old clothes were maternity clothes for my 26-year-old sister. I blamed this one on God even though I was angry at the entire world around me. It just wasn’t fair.

Me and Sissy

Just before I went away to college I weighed myself and started accepting my fate as a fat-girl with less anger. I was what I judged too close to my father’s weight at the time. And then my only goal became to always weigh less than he – a man 4 inches taller than me and slim with long limbs. The day I outweighed him, I went to the “fat-girl” shops to find something large enough to drape my sow-shaped body and found little solace in the fact that the smallest sizes were too large. I was struggling to find my size – how could I be fat at Lerner New York and skinny at Lane Bryant? I couldn’t understand it and hated my body more. I resorted to what I’d done my entire life – diet and exercise and lose a few pounds, giving up after not losing enough weight and not in the right places.

Me and Sissy

I would repeat this cycle until 7 years ago when I just gave up. I don’t imagine I’ve given up forever, but I am still stuck in the give up. Just before I gave up I had lost over 40 pounds and was very excited about my progress. The first blow was that my bloodwork didn’t show enough improvement to match the effort I was putting in. The second blow was when I looked back on some photos of me as a kid and I didn’t see a fat girl looking back at me. I felt betrayed by all the people who had called me “healthy” when I was a perfectly average little girl. It was enough to push me over the edge into a depression that would take nearly a year to climb out of (with medication and talk therapy) having regained all but ten pounds of the weight I’d lost.

Me and Sissy

I had always believed that I was a fat girl. But I also had always been told (and believed) that I could fight it and become what I’d always wanted anyway – slim. And I am not sure if we’re in the middle of that story or the end.

I am a Fat Woman. And I don’t love that Fat Woman.

3 Min Read, Brothers And Sisters, Smart and Pretty

Am I Smart or Pretty? Or neither? ‘Cause it’s not both.

Regina Lynette

If I honestly answer the question myself, I will say I am smart and pretty. And my brain begins to produce receipts in protest – mine aren’t crisp and new like text messages and social check-ins, but they are yellow and antiquated like all the things that people have said over the years that replay in my thoughts. And in the end the lesson I’ve learned is that I cannot be both smart and pretty. The good news is that I really am smart and I really do know that you can be both. The bad news is it’s hard for me to believe it can be true for myself.

The funniest time I pitted “smart” against “pretty” and later chose smart, forsaking pretty, was during a trip to NYC. Before this trip I had just gotten tri-color highlights and cut my hair into short layers. For about two months my hair was delightful and mesmerizing. Yep. Mesmerizing – other people confirmed it. The colors and the shine and the bounce was mesmerizing. I worked to make the rest of me look like a person who would have mesmerizing hair and I was falling deeper in love with my appearance by the second. By the time we arrived at our hotel in New York, a stop that was just supposed to be enough time to check in and drop our luggage because we were hungry, I was so in love with myself with the reflection in the mirror that soon I was oblivious to the outside world. I didn’t even notice that my sister was ready to go, just sitting in a chair waiting on me, patience waning, while I was literally standing in the mirror brushing my hair just to watch it smooth out and spring back into place. I wore makeup and contacts lenses, and I was in love with the girl in the mirror. We joked about my primping and left on the search for food.

When we traveled to Manhattan – before we used smartphones for GPS step-by-step directions  – I fell into the navigator role. I could get us where we needed to go better than anyone else. As this wasn’t our first trip to NYC I was expected to take on my navigator role and get us around. I walked with the same confidence of a person who knew exactly where she was going, but we spent a lot of time lost. We approached an intersection after spending too much time walking to not have reached our destination and determined we were lost enough to ask two nearby police officers to help us find our way. We weren’t too far off-course thankfully, but we’d spent some time sort of going in circles thanks to me. The officers gave us one or two directions and said we’d see the place we were looking for when we got to the intersection. My sister pointed to the sign I didn’t see just before I guided us in the wrong direction again and in her exasperation, she said that my wearing lip gloss had done something to my brain. We were joking, of course, but it truly felt like I’d applied lip gloss and wiped my brain at the same time.

When we talk about that trip, we continue to laugh about it because the only memory I have of the trip was how I looked. And on that trip we visited a lot of places that I swear I have never been, like the Schomburg. And weirdly all of our photographs from that trip are missing. It’s like all evidence that we went on this trip is gone except for my Playbill. My sister and I even took a picture under The Apollo sign like Phylicia and Debbie and I cannot believe that picture is gone.

As I said, I’m smart, so I know lip gloss isn’t truly kryptonite, but I can’t tell you how much “evidence” I can provide where I can’t do basic math or understand concepts when I’ve applied makeup and like my hairstyle or outfit. So, my sister who is smart and pretty, sort of took over the rest of the trip, while continuing to wear her lip gloss. If logic says that lip gloss is wiping my brain, wouldn’t that same logic say that the same lip gloss was wiping her brain? Why do I believe she can be smart and pretty but that I have to choose between smart or pretty for myself?

When I was younger I believed myself to be the smartest kid in the room. And there was no shortage of adults telling me so. And when I was younger I thought I was so pretty. And there was no shortage of adults telling me so – in between calling me all kinds of fat-girl. But somewhere along the way I learned and believed I had to choose between pretty and smart.

10 Min Read, Brothers And Sisters, Donna Maria Thomas-Walker, Parenting

I am Regina Lynette. My parents loved me.

Regina Lynette

When I was in grammar school, standing in the school lunch line was the closest equivalent to the water-cooler conversations you could have as a child. Even though we weren’t supposed to talk, we did.

I remember practicing the latest snaps from the “Men on Film” skit on In Living Color. We talked about The Cosby Show episodes. I remember having debates that included everything from the way to pronounce the words milk and pickle – I said milk and she said murk; I said pickle and she said purckel – to scriptures – I told her God is a jealous God and she swore He wasn’t.

But one conversation where we shared our tips and tricks to manipulate our parents to indulge us sticks in my mind significantly, because it was the first time that I paid close attention to the fact that my parents loved me.

One of the tricks one of my friends shared with me was to pretend to cry and say “You don’t love me anymore” to a negative response. It was the only trick left on the table that I hadn’t tried and even though I really didn’t think it would work, I held on to it planning to try it out when all else had failed. I knew Mommy wouldn’t even go for it – pulling on heartstrings wasn’t the way to get what I wanted from her. But Daddy was all emotion with me, so he was my target. Besides, he said “no” less often than Mommy, so my odds were already increased.

The day came when Daddy was being unreasonable and not giving in to my every demand and I decided to pull out the last arrow in my quiver. I turned my mouth upside down, puckered my lips, willed tears to form, and drooped my head. I said, “You don’t love me anymore.” And before I could even put the period on the sentence I burst into laughter.

I tried to compose myself as I listened to my father, extremely offended and dumbfounded, telling me that he knew that I knew that he loved me. I put my hand up in surrender and between muffled guffaws, I told him I knew he loved me and that I was sorry. He told me never to say that again and I agreed. The idea that my father didn’t love me was so absurd that I couldn’t even pretend that he didn’t.

I was born at 9:01AM in the 901 (Memphis’ area code) on a Sunday morning. The story of that day is like a fairy-tale in my mind – even all these years later. I have combined my parents’ stories and tell the story with the same sweet tones Mommy used and the glimmer in Daddy’s eyes.

Once upon a cold Sunday morning, a beautiful girl-child would be born. It snowed for the first time that year on her birthday, making for a picture-perfect wintry scene. Laying in a hospital bed, under rosy pink bed sheets, Mommy laid all tucked in and warm. When it was time for the little princess to be born, the doctors came in, opened Mommy’s tummy, and gently lifted her up and out of the womb. Mommy and Daddy were so proud of their perfect baby girl and beamed when they admired her every little detail. She had all her fingers and toes and weighed 8 pounds and 11 ounces. Mommy said, “Oh Bob, she has your hair.”  Then they passed her on to the family friends who came by to witness the birth of this little girl-child. One of those gentlemen held her and commented, “She looks just like a little Indian!” and then the baby sneezed on him. Mommy had to stay in the hospital longer than was necessary for her youngest daughter, so she spent time recovering in the hospital holding her newborn and feeding her from a bottle.

At the end of their story – along with the embellishments from my very active, creative, and detailed imagination – I felt like the entire world rejoiced at my presence. My youngest sister insisted that my birthday be celebrated separately from the Christmas holiday because I was born almost 2 weeks before Christmas. My youngest brother rescued me from all the love that just gushed out of my family’s hearts in the form of hugs and kisses when my introverted self could take no more. And I had made life special for everyone because they had been blessed with the opportunity to spoil me. There is no way I could feel that way except that my parents made me feel that way – because the story I just told you was loosely based on short answers given to an inquisitive child.

As an adult I heard other events of that day and better understand some of the details. Snow in Memphis wasn’t exactly uncommon in that time, but snow in Memphis was seldom a Winter Wonderland. And if it was, the whole city shut down and that would be a major inconvenience in trying to get to and from the hospital. I was a rather large baby and it would be dangerous for Mommy to give birth naturally so she needed a c-section. And since they recommended the c-section, she decided it was time to officially close shop and have those tubes tied. Have you seen the way doctors yank babies from their mothers’ wombs during a c-section? I have. It’s not glorious nor gentle. Mommy was on morphine for pain after her surgery. She said it made everything beautiful. One time while feeding me from a bottle, she fell asleep. When she woke up, I wasn’t there. She very nervously looked over the sides of the bed to see if I had fallen to the floor – and I guess died if I wasn’t crying, right? But then the nurse brought me back and fussed at Mommy (gently) for falling asleep with me in her arms, telling her to be sure to call the nurse if she felt sleepy while holding me. And when the doctors asked if she wanted a prescription for the morphine when she was released, she refused it. Because it made everything so beautiful she decided it was dangerous and didn’t want to risk a habit forming. And my sister, the one so insistent about how I should be treated, was looking for her boyfriend who happened to be in the hospital while I was being born. I have never heard a thing about what my brother was doing on that day. His recollection of my going to him to get away from everyone else was likely after I was walking – or at least crawling – because, though precocious and smart, I don’t believe I was able to communicate a need to be taken to my brother to be left unbothered the day I was born. I was swollen on my birthday and Mommy was disappointed that whoever was involved in having my picture taken at the hospital didn’t lift me up high enough for my eyes to open more – they had to know I was swollen and if I was to have a good picture, I needed to be arranged properly.

All the characters in this story. This is posted without their permission so don’t tell them.

The “real” story isn’t exactly like a picture book tale, but it’s still beautiful. The most important part of that story isn’t in the details of either version. My parents loved me. And I knew it without any shadow of a doubt. That love would take me through the years that Mommy was not present because she suffered from undiagnosed depression. That love carried me through the years that my father abandoned me emotionally because of a mistake he made when trying to give me what he thought I needed. That love is why I know when someone is lying to me about love or being manipulative citing love as the reason for bad behavior. I know real and true love. And because I have known it forever, I have no idea how to explain it. In all my relationships, despite any person’s missteps, I know what it feels like to be loved and I reject anything less from those who proclaim love.

I am Regina Lynette. My parents loved me. (I use past tense because they are both deceased.)

10 Min Read, Bookish, Brothers And Sisters

I am Regina Lynette. I am a Silver Sparrow.

Regina Lynette

Silver Sparrow is the title of a novel by Tayari Jones about two half-sisters, their shared father, and how life unfolds for them and their families*. I went to see her at the Decatur Book Festival and while discussing her book, Tayari Jones asked if there were any Silver Sparrows in the room. I raised my hand. The feeling of pride that accompanied that acknowledgement surprised me.  

The story of me and my half-siblings has always been shrouded in shame. I never took on the shame directly, but some people look at me as the shame – I was a catalyst for change in my parents’ lives. But I never even remotely accepted the blame for my parents’ decisions.

My father was married with children at the time he met my mother, and she was divorced with children. They began their relationship while my father was still legally married. I have 3 half-brothers and 4 half-sisters. I shared one half-brother and one half-sister with our mother. I shared two half-brothers and three half-sisters with our father. I’m the only and last child between my parents and all my siblings are “half”. No one in my immediate family used the term “half” so I’ll be dropping that now.

It was easy to share my mother with my brother and sister because they lived at home with me and neither of their fathers were involved in their lives. It was a little more complicated with sharing my father. His oldest children were close to my mother’s age, so he wasn’t co-parenting young children but adults. They were married and having their own children – I have three nieces and a nephew who are older than I am. So, while I was technically sharing my father with his older children, what was happening day to day was that I had a father (and in some respects my mother’s children had him as a father), and his older children were abandoned. With young children, fathers typically make some legal arrangement to share custody with mothers and all the children manage to grow up together in some manner. With adult children, what happened in our circumstances, is that I became a secret.

I didn’t realize I was supposed to be a secret, mainly because I knew the truth about my family structure and we never treated it like a secret. But when I spent time with my father’s children and I met people from their everyday lives, I had to be explained. “Who is this small child with you – too young to be friends with your own children?” people would ask. “This is my baby sister. Yep, there was one more who came much later.” Or if my nieces were asked then it was often, “This is my baby Auntie.”

And I almost got pleasure that we’d shocked someone because our family was a little unexpected. As a teenager and young adult I started to feel more sensitive to other people’s reactions.

The moment I felt for certain that I had been a kept secret was at my niece’s wedding. I was a bridesmaid and was approached at the rehearsal by two ladies I didn’t know. They asked who I was, and I told them the bride was my niece. They assumed I’d sort of adopted my way into the family – not that she was my biological niece. I explained – no, her father is my older brother – and the look on their faces, the sudden silence to me, and the whispering behind my back but in front of my face felt shameful. That is what I felt.  

I feel compelled to provide some disclaimers. First, I do not know those ladies and if they were standing in my face this minute, I wouldn’t know they were the ones with whom I spoke and couldn’t tell you what the significance was of them being at the wedding rehearsal. Second, there could have been any number of reasons they weren’t privy to details about our family that had nothing to do with feelings or opinions on how I came to be – I have no idea what the relationship with these ladies is between my family. And third, though it’s no secret that this brother had a difficult time with our father and his choices, neither he, his wife, or his daughter ever made me feel anything less than precious when I was with them. This is just a recollection of a moment in my life where I felt shame and realized I was a secret – not a factual account of anything done to me by anyone. I was old enough that I could understand that my existence and the circumstances around my conception was not necessarily something to boast about and not necessarily information that just anyone needed to know. Yes, I am very aware that the compulsion to offer that disclaimer speaks rivers and yes, you likely will hear more about that later – I’m trying to keep these entries brief.

The first time I noticed how easy (and benign) it was for me to have become a secret was the first time I realized my siblings had become my secret. Years ago, an associate at work was leading a professional development workshop and as part of his intro and opening comments he would ask if anyone in the room had older brothers. This was much more about a segue into an anecdote about him having older brothers and less to do with getting a census of the participants. Though I had been in the room when he did this presentation several times, this was the first time I was a participant in the workshop, and so this was the first time I raised my hand. He was so startled that I felt a little embarrassed. He was silent for just a beat too long before he said that he had no idea that I had brothers. I said something to try and explain that there was no reason for me to have mentioned my brothers in our previous interactions – we had a professional relationship that was also relatively friendly – and before it became too awkward, he moved on. This would be true for most of the people I interact with on a daily basis. Just because I see or speak to someone everyday doesn’t mean that I’ve had any interactions with them that require them to know anything about my family structure. This has absolutely nothing to do with how I feel about any member of my family and everything to do with the point of whatever I am trying to say at that moment.

So since that revelation, I look back on my memories with a different lens and with much less sensitivity than I used to. If you call me Regina, you do not know the whole story, trust me (even if you already knew everything I just shared). And there are no secrets – just rooms to the house you haven’t been invited to enter, so to speak. If you know me well (likely you call me Gina) you probably get the explanation of my family structure because you probably need it – anecdotes can get complicated if you don’t know the key players. But if you were introduced to me as Regina, and now call me Gina, (or vice-versa) you are missing some details – they aren’t secrets but you find out things on a need-to-know basis. And I determine when you need to know.

The pride in raising my hand at the book festival to identify myself as a Silver Sparrow was because it was a pretty name for something complex that I now find beautiful. My parents made the choices they thought were best at the time. I say that they weren’t always the right choices. Maya Angelou said “Just do right. Right may not be expedient, it may not be profitable, but it will satisfy your soul.” Some of their choices were expedient at the cost of being right. Some of their choices were profitable at the cost of being right. And some of their choices were easy and comfortable at the cost of being right. I know my parents sometimes didn’t consider – and at times didn’t understand – the impact that their decisions would have on the generations to come after them. And there is a lot of pain associated with all of us who suffered consequences of their choices. But, the day I raised my hand proudly declaring myself a Silver Sparrow was the day I saw the beauty of what they gave me. I was exposed to many different philosophies of life – all my siblings were adults and I was often in a position to be taught by them as parents to children. The brother who I mentioned earlier in the wedding story taught me how women should be treated by what I saw in how he treated his wife and daughter. All my sisters wanted me to look and behave ladylike, even though they all had slightly different ideas of what that meant and different deliveries of the message. Everyone expected me to be studious and ambitious and encouraged me to be the best they thought I could be – whether they really knew what that was or not. If I had not been a Silver Sparrow, I wouldn’t have had the siblings I have, and we wouldn’t have had the life experiences that have made us all more intentional about our life choices and aware of what we are contributing to the following generations. And while my life experiences range from horrible enough to repress to so joyous it is heartwarming, it’s that spectrum that gives me pride.

I have 3 brothers. I have 5 sisters (fictive kin included). I am Regina Lynette, and I am a Silver Sparrow.

*Silver Sparrow by Tayari Jones is one of the books that I hugged after I finished reading it. I have read all her books and have recommended all of them at one time or another to friends and family – and now to you.

My Tayari Jones books are enjoying a sunset on the lanai.
Pictured from left to right – An American Marriage, Leaving Atlanta, The Untelling, Silver Sparrow.