Godparents

My godparents were Minnie and Sarge.

Sarge was scary. He chewed tobacco all day long and spit into cups- set up every few feet around the apartment. They lived several flights up so the climb to their place was long and slow because I never looked forward to seeing Sarge. He was 5’10, a little less than portly, Negro but with yellow colored skin. I never saw his teeth because he never smiled. He laid in bed a lot and often I would have to go into his room to greet him. He would roll his bald head over his right shoulder and spit and cough and then his garbled voice would say the words I feared most, ‘come over here Chris’. I always stood by the door with my hands behind my back hoping I could just say hello and slip back out. He would make me stand next to the bed and he would reach up and grab one of my braids. “How you doin? You bein a good girl? Huh? Huh?” Every question meant another tug on my hair, but I was timid and very afraid that he might spit some of the brown stuff that was dripping from his mouth.

When the ordeal was finally over he would tell me to take a quarter off the top of his dresser. It was hardly worth it. I would ask to go down to the corner store and I’d rub my head while I ate my chocolate bar in silence.

The only time I remember Sarge standing up was in the Baptist church they attended downtown. He would stand at the front of the church with about seven other men; all dressed the same in black suits and ties with white shirts. Sarge and the other men would rock back and forth, left to right, right to left, with their legs spread apart, moving to the rhythms set by the choir or the preacher. The line of swaying men would stare straight out at the congregation, searching. Then there would be a wailing sound and a ladies’ arm would fly up with her white handkerchief swaying loosely in her hand. She was falling out, falling out with the Spirit and that was what the men were there to do, pick up and carry away the ladies who fell out with the Spirit.

“Oh Lawd, Oh Lawd, take me home”

“Go on Sistah, go Home”

“Yeah Lawd, thank you Lawd”

The lady would be shaking her head and bending at the knees every once in a while so two men would have to carry her off. It was always a lady who did this, never a man. My eyes were wide with fright; I was so afraid it would happen to Minnie who sat next to me rocking slightly in her seat, humming along with the choir, occasionally wiping a tear with her white handkerchief.

Once the falling out was over, things were not so bad. They had these great breakfasts afterward, down in the basement. I could eat as much eggs and sausage as I wanted (because Minnie was busy fanning the lady who ‘got the Spirit’). I got to wear a new lavender jumper with a ruffled white blouse, white tights and shoes and everyone commented: “Girl she’s such a doll”. I would look down and smile and Minnie would put her hand on my shoulder and incline her head and say “yes but she needs some Christian education, pray for her sistah Smith”.

Church was the only place outside the apartment that I saw Minnie, if Sarge spent most of his time in bed then Minnie was busy reading the Bible or on the phone with some lady from the church. They didn’t own a television and the radio was always tuned to a religious station.

Minnie was a medium looking black woman. Medium height, medium weight, medium brown and medium intelligence. She wore black spectacles and black patent leather shoes with her toes all scrunched up inside the pointy tips. As soon as we would get inside, she would sit on the edge of the bed, rub her feet, shake her head and moan.

Minnie and Sarge’s apartment always had a particular smell, the mixture of chewing tobacco and Minnie’s closet full of medication, mostly mentholated products. Each time I entered their home, I was hoping for a better adventure than the last one. I was hoping they’d have something sweet and good to eat, that Sarge wouldn’t pull my hair and that Minnie wouldn’t give me a lecture. Minnie was always trying to teach me about something. I was always getting into trouble with her, especially those times I spent the night.

While Minnie was in the bathroom changing into her pajamas, I browsed among the things on her huge wooden dresser, occasionally taking a peek at myself in the mirror. When she came out, dressed in her long white gown, she would find me lingering over one of her possessions.

“That’s a really pretty box, Godmother, I like the little flowers.” Her response was always the same: “Now Christie Lynn that’s just a sly way of begging that’s what it is a sly way of begging that’s all”. Minnie would frown and sigh, but then she would give it to me, every time.

I didn't learn much about God, but I did develop a love of chocolate and learned to reward myself with pancake breakfasts.

Godparents- continued….

If I really think about it I did learn something about Minnies God. She lived for him and some greater reward than the aching tired feet she brought home every day. She listened to what was called his “Word” on the radio morning, noon and night. The little red and silver toaster shaped box that was perched on her compact San Francisco apartment kitchen counter seemed to bark all day. The Lord this, the Lord that, repent, repent, repent.

I was never drawn to the actual words then because they were delivered in a way that felt like I was being spanked- which happened often enough that I wanted to avoid the same feeling inside my head. Minnie’s God was someone you toiled for day in and day out. Someone you used yourself up for by being in service to His church until your body literally wore out.

Even at the tender ages of five and six when I spent most of my time with Minnie and Sarge, I knew I did not want their life. I knew I did no want their God. I wanted music and there was no music except the occasional approved Gospel song. When people sang I loved it and would become dreamy, my little nappy head perched inside my hands, elbows on the kitchen table. When the preaching started up again I would receive the words like cold water dashing my reverie.

I was mostly afraid of their God. I was afraid to be wrong. Maybe that’s where I learned there was a right and wrong way to be. My seeking the pleasure of song, dance and play was wrong. My seeking the presence of a superior being was right.

Sarge left to meet his maker as they loved to say, and I was not invited to any of the ceremonies that sent him on his way. I recall coming back to the apartment, walking through the narrow hallway, his room looming dark and quiet at the end. I smelled his tobacco as strong as ever. It wasn’t a bad smell, somewhat earthy, sweet and musty all at the same time. Seemed to me he was still there and I couldn’t imagine why Minnie would cry over him, he was so mean.

The last time I saw Minnie she had been mugged. I found her sitting on the floor of her tidy apartment. The first thing I noticed was her torn stockings and her deep dark skin exposed. I had never seen her actual skin except for her face and hands. Everything else had been kept covered, with stockings, coats, long nightgowns. All changing done in the bathroom out of my curious sight.

Minnie met her maker too. I was relieved that I didn’t have to go there anymore and could be adopted by my sisters God Parents who I coveted. Mamie and Mack. Their radio blared a baseball game and there were candy bowls on the living room coffee table. I did not have a view of heaven. I imagined Minnie and Sarge in a place much like their church. People wailing, people swaying and maybe Minnies feet unfurled from their cramped posture in her proper shoes. Maybe she could walk without pain, that would be heaven enough.

Next Chapter: He is here