Exerpt from "Memoirs of An Ordinary Woman, Volume II"

[The1Essence]

When I was 16 years old, my father died, and I was again, as I was the first few days of my charmed life, alone, living amongst strangers. I remember his funeral as if it were this morning…

Saving Grace Baptist Church, where my father’s funeral was held, seemed a millennium from developing into a Jerusalem Baptist Church that boasted 500 plus members, and an immaculate sanctuary that rivaled any of the City’s most wealthy Catholic parishes. Jerusalem was where I was baptized at seven and, attended Sunday morning service, every Sunday, with my father and Ms. Ruby, his special friend. The parishioners’ consisted of the most elite of Milwaukee’s, Black community. City councilmen, business owners and their families came to worship, show their faith and show off.
Saving Grace was nothing but a store front on the corner of Third Street and North Avenue. The Pastor, Reverend Roman Carter, allowed his church to be used for the wakes and funerals of those souls other churches wouldn’t accept.
His congregation consisted mostly of prostitutes, bytches too old for the stroll, reformed pimps, gamblers, con-men, and ex-con’s, both rehabilitated and not. Because of its centralized location at the entrance of the poor and lower class Black community, not far from downtown Milwaukee, basically anyone down on their luck sought refuge at Rev. Carter’s church.
The outside of the church was tan brick, blending in with the other store fronts on the block. There were two large picture windows in front painted on the inside to resemble stained glass, and over the windows, hung large grotesque, purple valances with gold trim. Separating the picture windows was a regular white candy store door, protected by a plain, off track screen door that slammed against the frame with every person’s entrance and exit. And, above the door was a sign with faded purple letters that read: Saving Grace Baptist Church; Rev. Roman Carter, Pastor; All Sinners WELCOME!
The inside of Saving Grace was just as homely as the outside. With no natural sunlight able to slip through the faux stain glass windows, the make shift sanctuary was dark and musky; lit only by a large ceiling fan in the center of the room. A worn and torn red carpet was covered by 30 inexpensive metal folding chairs, neatly arranged in five tight rows and split by a center isle that lead to my father’s casket, which was centered in front of the tiny room. Bishop Carter’s feeble wafer board podium stood on a shabby stage, above the casket, which only intensified the pathetic scene.
Smells of nervous sweat, funky underarm musk, cheap perfume and even cheaper cologne, mingled with the fragrance of fresh flowers that filled any space unoccupied by chairs, or people. Mourner’s dressed in bright colors, big suits and even bigger hats, sat or stood, fanning funk and wiping sweat in the sweltering room as Ms. Ruby and I made our way to the front row near the casket.
Ms. Ruby gingerly grabbed my right hand with her left, while simultaneously rubbing the center of my back as she led me to the two tiny chairs reserved for family, less than three feet from my fathers heavily made up face.
A woman dressed in all white, which included her nylons and old lady shoes, rushed to my side as I sat. She hovered over me with a box of tissues and a fan that had the picture of Martin Luther King Jr., on it.
If I had been in my right frame of mind, or any coherent frame of mind for that matter, I would have immediately recognized her as a church “nurse”. But, my brain matter had been reduced to Jello in the four days since learning of my father’s death, and I had no use for this human being or her tissues.
The service was long, drawn out and interrupted frequently by wails from several women seeking attention from the various nurses. You could have bet money there was a prize being given at the end of the service for the loudest and longest sorrow attack by the way these bytches clowned. The shyt resembled a National Geographic TV special I once saw about the Wailing Wall. But, there was a bright spot. A beautiful woman sang Amazing Grace.
She had long, waist length wavy black hair, a honey complexion, large dark eyes surrounded by long thick lashes and large full burgundy lips. Her deep contralto voice diverted my scattered thoughts from the only thing I could coherently focus on, Nick. Yet, she looked strangely familiar. I had seen this lady some where…
The Bishop’s sermon as well as the countless testimonies from people I had never seen before, let alone imagined my father would have ever dealt with, were all a blur. And, after what seemed like an eternity, I was ushered through the fake friends by Ms. Ruby towards the limousine still waiting outside for us.
“The girl has been is shock since she found out. Poor thang has to be medicated. That’s why she ain’t cried none.” Was the excuse Ms. Ruby offered for my silence and dazed appearance.
I didn’t care what she said honestly. To be real, she didn’t have to tell these low class pimps and whores a damn thing. Fuck them all! I wanted Nick! Where was he? When would he come save me from this horrible scene?
“Oh, brother, I need you!” Was the scream I repeated over and over in my head, to salvage my sanity.
Ms. Ruby and I rode back home in silence. My father was to be cremated. There would be no repast. At least not one we would attend. And I was glad for it. I didn’t know those people. I didn’t want to know those people. I just wanted my brother to come and make everything better, like Daddy always did.
Daym! Its’ funny how after two years, I still feel the mind numbing pain I felt during those events. The most profound thing I have ever had to learn on my own was that, the smallest, seemingly most insignificant event can change a personality and a life in a major way. My change was beginning…and, I had no idea of what was coming at me. Nor, was I ready.
©2009 by The1Essence
All rights reserved.


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