Power Beyond the Grave

BY KARIM ALLAH SHARIF

Excerpt from Power Beyond the Grave

© 2017

Chapter 7

The Unforeseen Turmoil

Five days after the death of our grandfather and great-grandfather, July 26, 1959, my sister Karen turned eight years old. I had turned twelve on April 1st. Geraldine had already begun to create distance between us and her. We knew that she was our mother, and we called her Mama. It was becoming more and more difficult to think of her as Mama or to even call her that. We thought of her as our father’s wife, or just Geraldine.

We did not feel close to her at all. We were close to our grandmother and our father’s sister, our Aunt Lillian. Our adjustment to our mother’s hollering, screaming and cursing was gradually becoming an operable mechanism. We just stayed away from her as much as we could by doing other thigs.

It was during this time that I began to catch most of the abuse. I was an active young boy who really like going outside and playing in the woods. Our first home was in an area that was not so heavily populated. The road  had been recently paved and there was a big ditch on both sides. Our front yard was cleared of most of the trees and our back yard was cleared somewhat. However, woods existed beyond a certain point, and I loved going deep into the woods, just exploring.

That was my way of getting out of my mother’s presence. She had become very moody, and I was always the recipient of the brunt of her feelings. She would lash out at me for unknowingly tracking dirt into the house, going into the refrigerator without washing my hands first, not taking the trash out or shutting the door to my room. The list goes on and on. This time was like a living hell for Karen and me, because Geraldine was very verbally abusive to both of us and was physically abusive tome. She would wake up in the morning and would begin to curse at our father, accusing him of not wanting her to have a car. We all had to listen to this while he prepared our breakfast, fixed our lunches and then drove us to school.

Our father was a very calm person, who never raised his voice to argue with our mother, especially in the presence of us. He had a divine power of self-control. The impact of her behavior was etched deeper and deeper into my sister’s and my being.

The early part of 1960 was unsettling for many people, but not necessarily for the same reasons. On February 1st, four students from A&T College (now North Carolina A&T State University) took a giant leap in the effort to bring about change in the social status of African Americans, especially having equal rights in public service institutions. The F.W. Woolworth store in Greensboro, North Carolina was the target They staged a sit-in that ignited the beginning of the Civil Rights Movement in the nation. Winston Salem was going through the same social unrest. In our family, there was little concern, even though a family friend, Carl Matthews, was a major catalyst in that movement.

My family was not affected by any of this. We only ate at Black-owned restaurants and never worried about eating at restaurants in downtown Winston-Salem, where the white people ate. One would think that we, as a Black family, would be involved in this social issue. Our life had so much going on, with so much more pressing issues, that what was going on in the community did not affect us.

On February 5, 1960, my mother’s birthday, my father purchased a 1957 green Ford two-door. Geraldine had resumed driving. The first place that we went was Johnson City, Tennessee, for the Easter holiday. On the way, it snowed and we had a wreck on the other side of Boone, North Carolina. We waited for the weather to change. The damage to the car was minor, so after a little while, we continued our trip to Johnson City.

When we arrived in Johnson City, the first thing Geraldine did was go to her cousin AJ’s to get some corn liquor, or get him to drive her to Kingsport to the liquor store. Our grandmother was livid, yet she, like our father, didn’t raise her voice or argue with our mother in our presence. So the entire time there, Geraldine was at AJ’s house, from early morning until late at night. AJ was her father’s brother’s child, so they had grown up together. They were really like brother and sister.

I remember AJ as a big, strong, gentle, kind person, and very unselfish. There was nothing that he would not do for my grandmother after his Uncle Landon passed. He could drink quite a lot of liquor, but he would never curse or lash out and disrespect people like Geraldine would.

Geraldine could start drinking, and her nerves would explode to the point where she would curse anybody out. She would become totally belligerent. Sometimes this would surprise people, except Karen and me. We had grown used to it. Our grandmother and our father had also. Before we left a few days later, my grandmother prepared food for us to eat when we got home, and meals for the rest of the week.

Then, she pleaded with Geraldine to not drink any more liquor until we got home. That didn’t happen. However, we got home safely. Not realizing that my mother could hear me, I told my grandmother over the phone that Geraldine had drunk liquor while we were on the road. Without warning, I was on the floor crying, after being hit in the head with a shoe. She was screaming at me, saying, “Mind your own damn business and quit talking so ‘dam much!” I was done, so I went straight to my room.

There was a small swelling on my forehead, and of course I was crying. When my father came home, Karen told him what happened. My father made an ice pack and put it on my forehead to reduce the swelling.

Geraldine was in their room having a drink. He went into that bedroom and shut the door behind him. It sounded like he was spanking her with his belt and warning her that the physical abuse would not be tolerated and the verbal abuse must stop. He also expressed the fact that, if she was going to drink, that she certainly should not drink with the children in the car.

I believe that my life began to change that day. I did not like my mother, and it all felt very strange to me. I loved all my other relatives, and I believed that they all loved me. I wasn’t sure about my mother at all, either way. It was an eerie feeling, because it wasn’t anything that I wanted to think about, much less talk about.

After that incident, I had very little to say to Geraldine, and we did all we cold to avoid confrontation with her. Our father told us that she was sick and her disease affected her behavior, and that we were not to feel as though it was our fault. That statement became like a broken record to Karen and me, because we had heard it for so long. Nothing changed for the better. It just seemed to get worse. Little did we know that Geraldine’s love of money was the fire, and that it was alcohol that fueled the fire.

Soon after that incident, there was more to come. Having knowledge of what happened, our grandmother came to Winston-Salem the next weekend and began to lecture my mother about her actions toward “these children.” Geraldine really began to fight back and lashed out at her mother about not giving her the money that her father left her.

She insisted that our grandmother was holding out on her and was treating her like a child; that she was a grown woman. Geraldine was telling the truth on herself. Our grandmother reminded her of how she took the money that was meant for Karen and me and spent it all. Our grandmother told her to grow up, accept her responsibilities, and seek a job in the school system.

The battle never ended, because there was a trading post that my grandmother and my father did not want to interfere with “us,” the children. Neither of them wanted to disrupt our life any more than it had already been disrupted. So, with us at the forefront, my grandmother told my mother, “I will help you go back to college [at A&T State University], if you obtain your Master’s degree.”

Of course, Geraldine had to have a car to get back and forth from Greensboro every day. As summer approached and school was out, our father drove us over to Johnson City to see our grandmother. During this trip, our grandmother arranged to get Geraldine an automobile. We all went out together to visit the dealership. The first car my mother looked at was a 1960 Thunderbird, two-door convertible. The salesman allowed me to sit in the back of it while she sat up front. He actually drove ninety mines an hour during one stretch of the road.

When we returned, I was excited, because I had never been in a car going that fast. Geraldine wanted that car, but my grandmother said it was not appropriate for a married mother of two, attending graduate school. Geraldine got mad and expressed her disagreement, to no avail. So, she got quiet. My Grandmother Amelia made it very clear that she should find something that would fit her lifestyle, or she would not have an automobile.

The final pick was a white 1960 Dodge Polara station wagon. At first, Geraldine did not like it, but she got used to it, because it was free. She was really happy that something was done for her and no one else. This had not happened for many years. She reminded her mother of this fact.

Chapter 8

Hell Breaks Loose 

The school year, into the spring of 1960, presented more unpleasant events for my father, my sister and me to face as a result of Geraldine’s dissatisfaction and unhappiness. Not only because of her father’s death, but also because she could no longer get money as easily as she once had been able to when her father was alive. My grandmother had become a stern taskmaster as a result of the many attacks that she had endured from the lying court system, and from her own brother filing a suit against her, charging her with taking their father’s retirement income.

I remember the many clashes between her and Geraldine, including the cursing and loud talking coming from Geraldine, and the quiet, determined, strong-willed silence of my grandmother. She only said a few words, such as, “No,” when asked for money, and “Get a job in the school system” or, “You need to grow up and be a mother, and stop drinking away your problems.”

Geraldine would curse at my father, blame him for everything and then blame my sister and me for her miserable life. This went on for the entire school year. Karen and I were affected so much that we didn’t like staying in Winston-Salem. All the kids knew that our mother was a drunk with a foul mouth. In the summer of 1960, when school closed for the summer, Karen went to Knoxville and spent the whole summer with Aunt Lil, and I went to Johnson City to spend time with our grandmother.

I was able to go to Camp Kern in Dayton, Ohio for the summer, because one of my father’s neighborhood buddies, Mr. Searl Henderson, was the director of a recreation center in Dayton, Ohio. He told my father to bring me up there for the camp. I was one of about five Black kids who attended the camp. I was so happy to get away. Sure, I had to face a few ugly remarks from the white kids, but it did not bother me at all. My mother had already inoculated me against such things, so to speak. Some of the things that she said to me hurt me so bad, that what those white kids said was like soft stuff.

At camp, I was driven to show them that I was the best swimmer in the entire camp, and so I did. In competition, I won the 25 meter freestyle and the 25 meter butterfly. On the 100 meter freestyle, my teammates told the coach to make me the anchor, and we won that too. I was really beginning to feel good about myself. My dad called Mr. Henderson and he told my dad about my accomplishments. I received a letter from home, with my father telling me how proud he was. He told me that he knew I could swim, and that I should keep up the good work. I wrote him back, telling him how much I was enjoying myself, and to tell Karen hello.

After about six weeks in camp, we were learning and playing soccer, a game that was totally new to me at 13 years old. The only sports I knew of at that time were golf, football, basketball and swimming. I decided that I should learn how to play soccer. After getting the hang of it, I messed around, and as a result of not knowing how to fall, I broke my wrist. It was painful, and what was more devastating was the fact that camp was over for me, and I had to go home. There were about four more weeks of camp remaining. This was July 1960. Every day, Geraldine made me feel so small. She told me that if I had paid attention to the instructor, I would have never broken my arm, and my problem was “not listening.”

Every day was a living hell because, according to her, my accident messed up her summer vacation. This was the first time I began to talk back to her, and she began to throw shoes at me. My father was working during the day with the summer school program. When he would get home, my mother would be drunk and out of control, and I would plead with him to take me to Knoxville or Johnson City. Funny thing, he would always say, “Your mother has a problem, and she is grieving the loss of her father. Everything will get better.”

At thirteen years old, I could not really grasp that idea. I was beginning to see more and more that mother didn’t like me, and I didn’t like her. After being home for about nine days, Dad drove me to Knoxville, where I spent the rest of the summer with Aunt Lil. What a relief that was. The comfort that I felt at Aunt Lil’s home was unmatched. Karen was in Johnson City with our grandmother.

School didn’t start until after Labor Day, or as I recall, after my father’s birthday, September 4th. Summer was finally over and everyone had returned home. Dad was preparing all the meals; our mother was getting up only to get her a drink of Gordon’s gin chased with water. She was talking ugly to all of us, always mumbling about how she never should have married and never had children; how her life would be much better if she had not done this. She would go on and on. My father would never say anything. Eventually she would end up in the bedroom, passed out. He would only respond to her when she raised her voice and started curing. We were definitely not a happy family.

Karen and I really began to have self-esteem problems, because as much as our father said, and our grandmother and aunts said how much they loved us, we began to really have problems with the fact that our mother didn’t love us. Mind you, we are thirteen and nine years old. Funny thing, it wasn’t until years later that everyone realized the sever impact of our mother’s behavior on Karen and me.

My eighth grade year in Catholic school was one that was full of trauma. My self-esteem problems began to surface. Once again, it was probably because I believed all the kids in school knew that my mother was an alcoholic. I had very little confidence in myself, and this would cause me to act out every now and then, or “show off.” My behavior was out of bounds some days, and I would have severe mood swings. I still did the school work, however, out of pride, because I did not want to be teased by the other children. Yet, I really didn’t like school at all, nor did I like the nuns or the priest. At the time, I didn’t know what racism was, but I could sense the disdain in their tone of voice and in their actions towards me.

One example of this occurred after recess one day. When recess was over, we were lined up outside on the playground to return inside the building. The boys lined up on one side and the girls lined up on another side according to their grade level. There was to be no talking while in line. I was standing there quiet, and the classmate behind me was talking to the person in front of me.

The nun, Sister Christopher Mary, slapped both of us in the back of our heads (in boxing it is called a rabbit punch, and it is illegal) with an open hand, and it gave me a headache. After she did this, my classmate immediately said to her that I was not talking, and that he was talking to the person in front of me. By this time, this young white woman realized that she had lost control of herself, because the other nuns came over to her to calm her down.

Now she was worried about parental backlash. She never apologized to me at all. My classmate behind me told his parents and they came to the school and advised the nuns not to ever touch him at all. I told my mother what happened, and her response to me was, “Behave yourself!” I told my father what happened and he said that he would speak to them. I was miserable until the end of that school year. I felt like those people were full of hate, and then at home I felt that my own mother was full of hate.

Karen was in the fourth grade, and she was beginning to notice a few things, yet we never talked to each other about our mother’s problems and the way she acted towards us. Looking back sixty years, this was the regret I have always had. My sister and I never discussed how we were both affected by our mother’s behavior. We loved each other dearly, and our strong egos would not allow us to show defeat or shame and sadness.

We were both aware of our misery, but we would not discuss it with each other, because we believed that it would weaken us. We desired for each other to stay strong. I would say that our father’s way of dealing with the situation rubbed off, because he would not let us talk about it at all. He just believed that his influence was greater, and we would overcome. He and my grandmother forgot that Geraldine was our mother. 

In May of 1961, I was leaving eighth grade, believing that I was finished with Catholic school, the nuns and priest—all the “white folks.” My plan was to attend Atkins High School, the public high school for the Black children in the city of Winston-Salem, North Carolina. It was the school where my uncle once taught math and coached the football team, and where my father was the former assistant principal, head basketball coach guidance counselor and English teacher. Many of the teachers there at that time had worked with him, and they thought well of him. He had also coached the basketball team to its first, second and third state championships, which he did back to back.

In 1961, he had become the principal of an elementary school in the public school system. I was really excited, because all of my buddies in the neighborhood were going to attend Atkins High School. I really felt prepared, because I felt that I was in a good place emotionally. All summer I had played basketball on the playground with kids who attended public school, and I had made a lot of friends. One of my very close friends had an uncle who owned a shoe shop downtown. My friend and I worked together and shined shoes on Friday and Saturday to make a little “pocket change.” All of these kids were headed to Atkins High School.

Well, guess who rained and stormed on all of my dreams? My mother. She convinced my father that sending me to the Catholic high school was the best thing to do She felt like all the female teachers at Atkins, especially those who liked him, would not be demanding on me and would give me good grades. This is the year I began to seriously rebel against my mother and confront her about her faults.

I told my father that my mother had never helped me or Karen with our school work, so how could she say that the teachers at Atkins would not have high expectations of me? I told my mother, “The damn nuns could care less about my achievement, and they were prejudiced; they were not going to be fair with me at ll. So the kids coming out of St. Benedict, which was all Black, had to take a test to attend Bishop McGuinness Catholic High School. That was not required of the white kids from the other Catholic schools in the city. School integration was not a huge concept at the time.

I did my best to fail that test by deliberately giving the wrong answers. I probably got 10 out of 50 correct. So after that, I figured that they would say I was too dumb to attend Bishop McGuinness, so I prepared myself to attend Atkins High School. Well, it did not happen. They sent my parents a letter saying that I qualified. This was when unhappiness began to bring forth dissatisfaction, like a drop of water on a block of iron, little by little.

Epilogue

Geraldine has been dead nineteen years. It feels like her grave is still open and that she is hovering over my life as an apparition that casts a dark shadow of memories.

On the completion of this story, April 1, 2017 (my birthday),  will be 70 years old. I have yet to overcome the power of her treacherous acts of savagery, hatred, abuse, torture and finally her total disownment and disendowment. I am still coping with it. I am inspired to inspire others to know that, as much as you may think that wealth can solve problems, it can create problems as well.

The impact that a mother has on her family lives on. Injuries sustained to the psychological and emotional health of a child caused by hate within the family structure do not disappear upon the death of the parent, the perpetrator. Many of us grow up in families that are filled with disagreement, heartache and pain, rebellion, anger, tears, wounded pride and the lack of self-esteem.

Many people think that these situations exist when poverty is the culprit. They can exist when there is wealth. They can exist when there are both parents in the home. This book, Power Beyond the Grave, is a psychological remedy for me, the author.