Drinking From A Bitter Cup -Chapter One

7/29/2019 Drinking From A Bitter Cup -Chapter One

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Chapter One

1978. The year I turned ten and the year my mama killed herself. She was

thirty-five, and dying is the last thing that should have been on her mind.

People used to say Mama had an earthy beauty about heralmost like one

day she just sprung up from the ground like a field of wild honeysuckle or a tall,

sprawling Chinaberry tree. She had skin the color of melted toffee and hair that

was thick and curly, hanging in wild, unruly waves on her shoulders.

Everything needs to be free sometimes, Sylvia. Even hair, shed say.

Mama would let me wear my hair loose like hers on the weekends, but for school,

she would put it in cornrows or plaits that hung to my shoulders. I remember

spending hours on the front porch, me sitting between Mamas legs holding the can

of Royal Crown while she sectioned my hair into little parts and rubbed hair grease

into them. I swear, your head has never been loved on if somebody hasnt oiled

your scalp. While she tended to my hair, she would cornrow it and tell me

fairytales, except, in her stories, the main characters were little black girls who

looked like me.

You see, there was this one girl called Little Red, and she was going down

the block a ways to see her Big Mama who felt kind of poorly, Mama would say

while she braided my hair as tight as she could. At times my scalp would feel as if

it was on fire. At times, I could have sworn shed gathered up some of my scalp


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into those little mini-braids. But when Mama began telling me one of her stories, I

would forget how much the hair braiding hurt because in those moments, I

magically became Little Red Riding Hood or Gretel or Sleeping Beauty. It didnt

matter I didnt favor any of the pictures of those fairytale girls who were in my

storybooks; all that mattered was Mama had a way of making me with my dark

skin, flat nose, and long, nappy hairfeel just like a fairy princess.

Mama and me lived in a two-story house in the West End of Louisville

where most of the poor, black people lived. Our house was one of the smaller

houses on 26th and Broadway. Mama rented it from this fat white dude named

Louie. In fact, most folks called him Fat Louie behind his back. He never talked

much; he just came to the door on the first Friday of every month with his hands

out for Mamas rent check.

Our house was one of the most rundown. Every first Friday Mama would

complain to Fat Louie about the things he needed to fix, but he would just look

past her like she wasnt even talking. Several of the bricks on our house were

missing, and a few of the windows were broken. Mama stuffed those windows

with paper to keep the air out. The front porch had almost caved in on one side, but

inside our house, things were different. Mama made things as bright and happy as

she could. We probably could have rented an apartment in the projects that would


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have been nicer than our house, but Mama said she had no plans to be beholden to

any man, especially Uncle Sam.

All of our furniture came from the Goodwill or yard sales, but Mama made

slip covers for the chairs and couch in the living room, and she painted

honeysuckle, chrysanthemums, and irises on the dining room table and chairs. We

sewed together old scraps of dresses I didnt wear anymore and made little throw

rugs to put in the entry way. Mama also painted and drew pictures for the walls.

She did a charcoal drawing of me and she hung it in the front hallway. Mama said

she wanted my face to be the first thing people saw when they walked in the door.

Everybody said it looked just like me too.

Always surround yourself with color, Sylvia, she said. Then youll

never be sad. Nobody can be sad when theyre surrounded by color.

So our walls were painted bright, sunflower yellows; deep, azure blues; and

eye-popping, emerald greens. I called our house Oz and I loved to pretend I was

Dorothy. I didnt have a real dog, but I had a little stuffed dog with a missing left

eye. I called him Toto.

For my eighth birthday, me and Mama planned this elaborate birthday party

and invited all 30 of the kids in my third grade class. The invitations asked all of

the kids to dress like their favorite character from The Wizard of Oz. Every time I

thought about my party, I would get excited. I just knew it would be the best party


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ever. I woke up at two in the morning and put on my party clothes and when Mama

finally got up a few hours later, she laughed at my silliness, but she let me stay in

my clothes. Finally, the time for my party grew near. The invitation said the party

would begin promptly at two p.m., but I told Mama we should have everything

ready by no later than one-thirty; just in case people showed up early.

Two oclock came. Girl, you know how black folks are with time, Mama

said. Theyre just running late. Dont worry. Three-thirty came. Maybe we didnt

put down the right time. I could try and call up some people. Then four. Then five-

fifty.Im sorry, baby. I was heartbroken. Not a single kid showed up. Miss Cora,

our next door neighbor, came over but to me she didnt count. She counted because

she was special, but she didnt count because she was grandmother-age. I wanted

kids my age to attend my party. Mama said it didnt matter those kids didnt show

up because we were going to eat cake and play like we were Dorothy and Glenda

the Good Witch.

Come on girl, hop to it. Were about to be off to see the Wizard, she

announced, with her hands on her hips. I stood up and wiped the tears as they

slowly inched down my face. Come on. The Tin Man, Scarecrow, and Cowardly

Lion are waiting on you, girlfriend.

Mama took me by the hand and we ran to her room. She put on her long

white dressing gown and then she put on a little crown from my toy box she had


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made for me out of aluminum foil and perched it on her head all cockeyed. I

already had on my blue and white pinafore and the red Buster Brown shoes Mama

got me for my birthday. Mama told me to put Toto in my old Easter basket and

before I knew it, she and I were dancing around the room singing, Were off to

see the Wizard. I forgot about the fact no one showed up for my birthday. Mama

and I had so much fun, at that moment, sadness had no way to touch us.

But the sadness still found Mama even though we had color all around us.

All through my childhood, the sadness would hunt Mama down and leave us both

helpless like puppies left under an abandoned house. Her sadness would start out

as a tear here and there, and then there would be times when she would make me

miss school and stay in bed with her all day while she held me tight and cried

loud, gut-wrenching sobs. She would get me to call the Brown Hotel where she

worked in the Housekeeping Department and tell Mr. Schlesinger, her supervisor,

she was sick. Mr. Schlesinger would always say okay and tell me to tell Mama he

hoped shed feel better soon. And she would. Get better, I mean. For a while.

For a time, shortly after my eighth birthday, Mama took night classes at

Jefferson Community College. She would go there after work at the Brown. I

would stay with Miss Cora on those nights or with Mamas best friend, Uncle Ray,

her sometimes boyfriend.


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Mama seemed so happy when she first started school. I remember how

proud she was when she came home with all of her school books.

Books are the key, Syl. Books open the door to everything, she said,

showing each book to me, telling me what she thought she would learn from them.

On the nights she didnt have school, wed sit and do our homework

together. Mama said she wanted to get a nursing degree first, and then after a

while, she said she might go back to be a doctor.

Baby girl, you just wait and see. Once Mama finishes school, well be on

easy street. Well buy us a house out on the east side of town and live just like the

rich white folks do, she said. I remember hugging her and laughing, excited

because she was so excited.

The first quarter, she made all As. Mama said her English teacher said she

had a way with words and should think about becoming a writer or an English

teacher. Mama showed me the essay. It had a big fat A on top and the words,

Great Job! I truly felt like everything would be all right then.

One night, during her third quarter at school, Mama came home and said she

quit. Even though the summer heat was blistering outside, she built a fire in the

fireplace and burned all of her books. Introduction to Biology, Calculus 101,

Western Civilization II. All of them in flames. I cried. I loved books. I was always


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somewhere reading a book or a magazine. I had a little bookshelf by my bed where

I kept all of my special, favorite books.

While Mama knelt in front of the fireplace crying and throwing in book after

book, I ran upstairs to my bedroom and grabbed as many of my books as I could

carry.Little House on the Prairie.Roll of Thunder, Hear My Cry.Are You There

God? Its Me Margaret. I climbed up the little ladder outside my door leading up

to the attic, dropping a few books as I climbed. The attic wasnt much more than a

crawl space. I couldnt even stand up in it. When I finally made it up into the dark,

damp attic, I pulled the little string which turned on the light and hid as many

books as I could inside of the Delmonte Peach box I used as my hope chest.

When I went back downstairs, Mama sat in her favorite chair by the window

in the living room, drinking a glass of vodka. The fire still burned in the fireplace,

but it had calmed down and so had Mama. Instead of the raging flames it was

before I went upstairs, it was now a low firemostly just ashes now.

Mama stared out the window not really looking at anything. I wanted to

ask her why she quit school and why she burned up all her books, but I didnt. I

just crept over to her and sat on the floor by her chair and laid my head against her

knee. She reached down and absently patted my head. We sat like that for a while,

her sipping on her vodka, staring out the window and patting my head, and me,


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swallowing back tears. A few nights later Mama came to my room and climbed

into my twin bed with me.

Cleaning up other folks mess is just like counting, Syl. Rote memory.

Theres no adding, no subtracting or dividing, just straight counting. Cleaning up

other folks mess is easier than school and careers.

I didnt say anything. I didnt know what to say. I just snuggled up close to

her, inhaling the faint scent of honeysuckle on Mamas skin.

Afterwards, Mamas mind took a turn for the worse. She still had good days,

but they were becoming fewer and far between. All the special things she used to

do, she stopped doing. Like making her clothes and mine, combing our hair, or

taking out her oil paints and creating colorful pictures she just stopped. The

Mama I knew seemed to be vanishing away like a wisp of smoke. Crazy seemed to

find Mama no matter how much she ran from it and after a while, I think Mama

got tired of running. Eventually, she just slowed up and let Crazy have its way with

her.

People still talked about Mamaespecially the women in the neighborhood.

Id hear them giggling and laughing when Mama would be having one of her bad

days. Mama would walk down the street to the pool hall for a Diet Pepsi, dressed

in an oversized, gray sweatshirt; dirty blue jeans; and a long, mangy coat. She

would be barefoot and her hair would be tied up in a dirty black head scarf. It


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didnt matter if it was cold or hot, Mama would dress in her sad clothes when she

didnt feel good.

Mama didnt even seem to notice the talk, and there was plenty of it. Instead

of talking about how beautiful she was, they talked about what a shame how she let

herself go. Yet, not a one of them minded hitting her up for a little change until

their checks came in, or asking her to hook up their hair with one of them natural

styles. I sometimes wondered if she knew they talked about her when one of them

would come creeping up to the porch with their hands out. Shed try to help if she

could and never even acted like she knew they had been running their mouths.

Well, I cared, and I hated them. I tried not to hate them because Miss Cora, our

neighbor, said hating was as bad as killing but it was almost impossible for me not

to be angry at those gossiping women.

The houses on 25th and Broadway were so close together Miss Cora said if

someone broke wind in their own house, their neighbor could smell it in the other.

I laughed at her joke. Miss Cora always said funny things, even without meaning

to be funny. Miss Coras house stood a few doors down from ours, but no matter

what, she told me she would always be within shouting distance. If I or Mama got

in trouble, she said, we only had to cry out her name and she would come running.

During the summer months, most everyone lazed around outside on their porch,

and if a girl remained quiet, she could hear things.


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That bitch Rose done lost her mind, Miss Honey said one day when she

and some lady I didnt know were walking by. Miss Honey lived in the

neighborhood and would giggle up in Mamas face and talk about her behind her

back. This particular time was a few months before Mama killed herself.

I was sitting on the porch swing, reading Toni Morrisons The Bluest Eye,

when I heard the women talking about my mama. My fourth grade teacher, Miss

Kennedy, said I was smart enough to handle reading it even though I was just

getting ready to go into the fifth grade. Some of the parts were hard to understand

and a lot of the parts were hard to read, especially the parts where the daddy did

bad things to Pecola, but I liked the way the words sounded on the page and on my

lips when I read out loud. As I grew older, I would reread The Bluest Eye often,

amazed at how much I didnt understand until some of the same things started

happening to me.

I put the book down on my belly and listened to Miss Honey and her friend.

The shrubbery in our yard hid me from their sight. They slowed up in front of our

house. I stayed quiet and didnt move. I didnt want them to know I was

eavesdropping.

Why you say Rose is crazy? the woman asked.

Girl, Sonny Boy works up at the Brown Hotel with her, and he say she

sometimes be sitting off in a corner all by herself, chattering like one of them


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African monkeys offTarzan. Crazy. Just crazy as hell. And you see how she done

let herself go? Girl, Rose use to be the shit. Now she look like shit, Miss Honey

said as they both laughed all the way down the street.

I wanted to say something to Miss Honey, but I didnt. What exactly could a

ten year old girl say to a couple of grown women to convince them to believe her

mother wasnt crazy, especially when she was afraid their words might be just a

little bit true? Some nights, Mama would be sad and scared, and she would have us

hide in her bedroom closet, whispering so the bad people wouldnt hear us. I didnt

know then the bad people were just imaginary voices in Mamas head. I trusted

Mama they were out there, so I hid with her, panicked at every creak of the floor or

car horn blowing on the street.

Youre all I got, Syl. Nobody else. Promise you wont ever leave Mama.

You promise, shed ask, holding me so tight I almost couldnt breathe.

Yes, maam. I promise, Id whisper, tears rolling down my face. I wont

go anywhere.

Some days she would be sitting at her dressing table and she would point to

a picture of my daddy. I had never met him before. In the picture, he wore a Navy

uniform and a huge smile on his face which caused little crinkles around his eyes.

His shade of brown was the same as mine. Mama said I favored him around the

mouth and eyes. When I was younger, I used to wonder why he didnt call me or


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come see me. I never asked Mama though. Somehow I knew it would make her

sad. Shortly after my eighth birthday, Mama told me why he never called or came

by to see us.

Mama sang at a club called Jazzys Place over on Hill Street before I was

born. Daddy was visiting a friend while on leave from the Navy when they met on

the 4th of July in 1967 a Tuesday night. Mama said she would never forget one

little detail of the night she met my daddy.

He was so fine your daddy. Dark chocolate, she said, hugging me tight.

I was singing a Billy Holiday song that night. Probably Ill Be Around. Hank

and I made eyes all night, even while I sang. He had a little too much to drink. He

wasnt a drinking man so liqueur hit him hard, Im telling you. He came home with

me and well, we spent seven days together. He told me he had to go down home to

Alabama and take care of business, but he would come back. He said he wasnt

happy with herhis wife, I mean. He was getting out of the Navy and he wanted a

new beginning, he said. By this time, Mama was good and drunk. Her words

were slurred and she cried huge tears.

He lied, Syl, she said, pulling me tighter into her arms. I squirmed a little.

I could hardly breathe with Mama holding me so tight. He went back down there

to her and stayed. I had his work phone number. I still do, in case of an emergency,

you know, but Ive never called him about you. I mean, sometimes I call, just to


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hear his voice, but I never say anything. In all these years, he doesnt know its me

on the other side of the phone line. He doesnt even know, she said. I lay there

with her until she stopped crying and went to sleep.

The next day, she came to me and apologized. Sylvia, your daddy is

somebody you can be proud of, honey. He owns his own business. Your daddy is a

high-class Black man. Even though I never told him we had made you, I know he

would love you. How could he help himself? But youre mine, Sylvia. I kept you

all for myself because youre the best, Sylviathe best of him and me.

I wanted to ask her if I could call and listen to his voice too, but I didnt. As

much as I wanted to, I didnt even ask. Even though I was young, I knew it

wouldnt make things better. Plus, Mama said it and I knew; I was all she had. I

couldnt ever let her know I wanted more than her.

But sometimes, when things were really bad, I thought to myself it would be

nice if he could come and see about us. Take us away to the east side of Louisville

where everyone was happy. But, instead, I just stayed afraid worried Crazy

would one day come and take Mama away for good, and I guess, in the end, it did.

While at school, I couldnt focus on my lesson because I couldnt stop

thinking about Mama. I still read a lot, but I wasnt a straight A student anymore

by the time I entered into the fourth grade. Lots of times I didnt have my

homework, and Miss Kennedy, my teacher, would be cross with me because she


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said I was one of the smartest children in the class, but I didnt seem to apply

myself. She would threaten to have a meeting with Mama. She never did though.

There were so many of us kids in her class I guess she must have forgotten or just

didnt have time.

I would always tell her sorry and I would do better. I didnt know how to tell

her my Mama was sometimes sick and I had to see about her instead of doing my

homework. I didnt tell her sometimes my Mama would be passed out drunk on the

floor and I had to help her bathe and get into the bed. And I sure didnt tell her that

sometimes I would come home and Mama would be hiding in her bedroom closet,

talking to the voices in her head, afraid of everythingeven me.

But I didnt tell anyone anything about the turmoil going on in my home.

The fear of social services taking me away terrified me. Mama had told me social

workers sometimes would take kids from their parent if the parent wasnt able to

take care of them. Mama ended up in the system because she had no one to take

care of her. Her Mama fell sick with cancer and died, and there wasnt anyone

around to take care of Mama so she had to go live at the Colored Orphan and

Industrial Home in Lexington, KY. I didnt want to be an orphan, so I didnt tell

anyone how bad things really were at home.

Instead, I learned to be quiet. My quiet nature is why the kids at school

didnt like me. I was real shy and easy to scare back then. I didnt have any friends


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except for Miss Cora, and just like I said before, she didnt really count because

she was a grownup. By the time I made it to my fourth grade year, I didnt like

going to school anymore. I never had any little girl friends, and I considered

myself to be stupid and ugly not to mention all of the kids were terrible towards

me. They would steal my lunch and push me down to the ground. Michael Martin

was the worst. He was supposed to be in the sixth grade but they held him back

twice.

One time he tried to push up on me when he and I were alone in the

classroom. His thing was hard. I didnt know what a hard thing meant back then,

but I knew it felt nasty. I kicked him down there and ran. After I kicked him, he

became even uglier towards me. Every chance he got, he tried to trip me or yell

something out in front of the other kids to embarrass me. One time he threatened to

pee pee on me but I took off running and he never mentioned it again. But he sure

didnt stop teasing me. Those kids put me through my own private war. Just like

the soldiers who fought over in Vietnam. Those kids would say such nasty things

to methings most people couldnt even imagine saying to another human being.

At times, if Id had a gun, I think I would have thought about killing myself too.

My mama say you a bastard chile, Sylvia Butler. Mama says you aint got

no daddy, Michael Martin said real loud during recess one day after I kicked him

down there again. Like a bunch of crabs in a bucket, the other kids rushed to


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surround us and see another crab get squashed. All of them either had scowls or

huge grins on their faces. She say your Mama aint foolin nobody givin you your

so-called daddys last name. Mama say your Mama probably dont even know

your daddys name.

And her Mamas crazy, Patience Floyd sang in a cruel melody. She was

the prettiest girl at school, so whenever she would pick on someone, everybody

else would join in with her. Sylvias mama is crazy. Sylvias mama is crazy.

All of the other kids laughed and sang right along with her. Sylvias mama

is crazy. Sylvias mama is crazy. I didnt say anything. I just pushed through

them, taking the slaps and punches they gave me without lifting my hand to them

at all. I didnt cry either. I knew Mama was different, but I didnt want to believe

she was crazy. To believe she was crazy was more than my heart could have stood.

As far as I was concerned, Mama was just sadder than most mamas. At the time, I

didnt want to even imagine Mama being anything other than normal. To believe

she was really crazy would have made me even more afraid than I already was. So

for the most part, I pretended like just like when we pretended like we were

Dorothy and Glenda the Good WitchMama was normal.

I would try to stay close by Miss Kennedy during recess and P.E., but most

times she would be talking with the other teachers and would shoo me away. I

would just go somewhere and try to make myself small. Stairwells and jani tors


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closets were good places to disappear into. I decided the only friends I needed were

Miss Cora, Uncle Ray, and Mama, of course.

Uncle Ray was an orphan like Mama. She said Uncle Ray took care of her at

the Orphanage.

Rays always been a bad son ofa gun. Nobody messed with me when Ray

was around, she told me once.

Uncle Ray repaired cars and sold a little marijuana on the side after the Ford

Factory laid him off from work. He also had a few other guys who worked for him

in the marijuana business. Mama didnt like the fact Uncle Ray pushed dope, as

she put it, but he told her there wasnt anything else out there for him to do.

I aint even got a damn high school diploma, Rose. And what with them

two times I went to jail, well, who gone hire me? he snapped at her one day when

we were at the Dairy Queen and some fellows came up to the car to buy some

marijuana from Uncle Ray. Uncle Ray hopped out of his car and went over to

where they were parked. When he returned, Mama told him he needed to stop

contributing to the downfall of the black race. Mama stopped saying Negro after

she read The Autobiography of Malcolm Xand started going down to the temple

every now and then. She said she would always be a Baptist, but she also thought

sometimes those black Muslims made sense.


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Just because youre having some hard times, doesnt mean you cant still

keep trying to better yourself, Ray, she said.

Better myself? Shiiittt, he said. Rose, the one good job I had, they let me

go from it. And you want to know why? Cause when the white boys came back

from Nam, they wanted to make sure the best jobs were sitting around waiting for

them. Dont be quoting me none of that Black Power bullshit. The only color with

power is green, baby.

Sometimes he would stay at our house. He had a place of his own, mainly

because Mama said he couldnt move in with us. She said he was just a friend. He

wanted to fix up our house but Mama wouldnt ever let him. One time he fixed one

of the cracked windows and she went outside, picked up a brick and threw it

through the window.

Rose, you is one crazy bitch, he yelled.

And dont you forget it, she yelled right back at him.

Movies and meals were just about all shed allow him to do for us. Im not

trying to have Ray up in my business, shed tell me every time money would get

tight and I would suggest we ask Uncle Ray for help. Id rather ask the devil first.

Mixing business with pleasure is not good, Sylvia. Remember my words. Black

men always want you beholding to them, just like the government. Well, Im not

going on anyones dole, not Uncle Sams and certainly not Rays.


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I would tell her I understood, but I didnt. Uncle Ray loved us and we loved

Uncle Ray and most important, Uncle Ray was the closest I figured I would ever

come to having a daddy, and he actually wanted to be my daddy. Up until he died,

I really thought it might happen and he, Mama, and I would be a family. The only

thing in the world I ever really wanted.


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Synopsis

1978. The year I turned ten and the year my mama killed herself. She was thirty-

five, and dying is the last thing that should have been on her mind.

After the death of her mother, Sylvia Butler's father, a man she knows only from an

old photo, takes her from Louisville, Kentucky to Ozark, Alabama to live with his

family. But his wife resents everything about this intruder, from her out-of-wedlock conception to her dark skin and nappy hair.

When the wife's younger brother Charles returns from Vietnam, Sylvia thinks she

has found a friend and confidante, only to be hurt again, but this time, in a mannershe never could have imagined.

Set under the backdrop of the Deep South in the 1970s and 80s, this coming of age

story of redemption and grace follows Sylvia in her journey from awkward girl toconfident, young woman, at last standing on her own.

About the Author

Angela Jackson-Brown is an English Professor at Ball

State University in Muncie, IN. She graduated fromTroy University in Troy, AL (B.S. in Business

Administration); Auburn University in Auburn, AL(M.A. in English); and Spalding University in

Louisville, KY (MFA in Creative Writing). Her workhas appeared in numerous literary journals, and her short

story, Something in the Wash was awarded the 2009fiction prize by New Southerner Literary Magazine and

was nominated for a Pushcart Prize in Fiction.

PRE-ORDER Information

www.angelajacksonbrown.comwww.widopublishing.com
http://www.angelajacksonbrown.com/http://www.angelajacksonbrown.com/

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