In My Shoes Read online

  In My Shoes

  A Writer Is Born

  Based on a true story

  BRENDA HAMPTON

  www.brendamhampton.com

  Voices Books & Publishing

  P.O. Box 3007

  Bridgeton, MO 63044

  In My Shoes: A Writer Is Born © 2012 Brenda Hampton

  ALL RIGHTS RESERVED according to United States of America Copyright Law. Unless authorized through prior written permission of the author, no portion of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means: electronically, mechanically, photocopied, recorded, scanned, or used in a manner inconsistent with Brenda Hampton’s copyright, except for brief quotations in critical reviews or articles.

  Correspondence regarding copyright permissions should be directed to Brenda Hampton, P.O. Box 3007, Bridgeton, MO 63044.

  First Trade Paperback Printing May 2012

  Printed in the United States of America

  To God be the glory…

  Prologue

  September 12, 1984

  My frizzy long hair was scattered all over my head and my skin was pale as ever. Tears streamed down my face as I watched the round clock on the wall tick away. After lying in the hospital bed at St. Louis County Hospital for seventeen hours, I knew exactly when the next contraction was coming.

  The minute hand hit the twelve, causing me to brace myself. I squeezed the sheets on the bed, balling them up in my hands so tight that they turned red. I squeezed my eyes together and took quick breaths that I was advised to do. My legs flopped around like fishes. I did my best to cease the excruciating pain from the ongoing contractions.

  “Somebody…anybody, please help me,” I shouted, as the rigorous pain took over my entire body. It lasted for a few minutes, and then it went away. I sighed from relief, recognizing that I would only remain this calm for the next twelve minutes. It was time to beg for help again, but the nurses and doctors were delayed with their response.

  As I screamed out again, the nurse came into the room, smiling at me as if there was something to smile about. She reached for my arm to take my blood pressure. I was mad as hell by the way things were progressing, and the twisted look on my face showed it.

  “Brenda, you must keep the oxygen over your mouth so the babies can get oxygen and breathe too. If you keep removing it, you’ll put their lives at risk and yours.”

  She placed the oxygen mask over my mouth, again, but it was sure to come off. At this point, I didn’t give a damn. How long did this have to go on? As the nurse took my blood pressure, the doctor entered the room. He was grinning from ear-to-ear, too, and I didn’t understand what the fuck was so funny. Maybe they were trying to make me suffer; after all, I was a seventeen year old pregnant with twins. Through their eyes, I should have known better than to put myself into a predicament like this one. Basically, I was getting what I deserved and they were doing nothing to help me ease the situation at hand.

  The doctor eyeballed the clock, knowing that my outburst was coming soon. He massaged my arms, before wiggling his fingers into a pair of sterile white gloves. Walking to the end of the bed, he stood in front of it. He ordered me to bend my knees and widen my legs. I frowned. Exposing myself to him was very uncomfortable. But at this point, I was willing to do whatever was necessary to get this over and done with.

  The nurse held my shaky legs apart, while he inserted his fingers inside of me. Nasty, I thought. Just nasty. And for making me wait this long, I hoped he got a whiff of my pee since I had already peed on myself.

  “I can feel one of the baby’s heads, but we’re still not quite there yet. Relax,” he said, patting my leg. “We’re almost there.”

  That was so easy for him to say, and as soon as those thoughts left my head, it was that time again. The oxygen mask was driving me nuts, so I snatched it off and reached for the nurses red long hair, yanking it.

  “Can’t you see that I need some damn help?” I said through gritted teeth. “When does this shit stop?! Why can’t y’all do nothing for me? Damn!” I pounded my other fist on the bed, displaying my frustrations.

  The nurse did her best to remove her hair from my fingers, but the grip was so tight that the doctor had to come over to assist.

  “Calm down,” he said, pulling my fingers away from the nurse’s hair.

  “I can’t go on like this,” I cried out. “Make this stop, please!”

  He tried to calm me, but the nurse had given up and walked out. I guess she’d thought I was one crazy bitch, and under these conditions, yes, I was.

  “Deep breaths,” the doctor repeated. “Take deep breaths and keep the oxygen over your mouth.”

  He waited until I calmed down, and then he left the room. The deep breaths weren’t working and he knew they weren’t. I swear, if I could’ve left, I would have. This was ridiculous and did it take all of this, just to bring a child…children into the world?

  As my raging anger ceased, I listened to another lady who was in the same room as I was. A dingy white curtain separated us, and even though her contractions weren’t as rapid as mine, she was going through as well.

  “I swear to God that I’m never fucking again!” she shouted. “This shit is for the birds! No more pussy for you, man. Do you hear that, Jake? No more pussy for you!”

  For a second, I couldn’t help but laugh. I felt what the White woman had said, but my thoughts had turned to that deadbeat Negro who had gotten me knocked up. If he only knew what I was going through. Damn him, I thought. What a lowlife bastard to make me experience something of this magnitude alone. I didn’t realize how much I’d hated him, up until I sat in my bed, watching the clock and waiting as the minute hand struck twelve. I braced myself again, thinking of ways I could kill him.

  At 7:53 a.m. the next day, twin A was born and twin B followed at 8:03 a.m. Completely exhausted, I barely had enough strength to look at the babies in the nurses’ arms. All I could see was him, and hating him so much gave me something I could look at every single day. I turned my head, wiping a slow tear that had rolled from the corner of my eye. My only thought was… where in the hell do me and my babies go from here?

  Chapter One

  Seven years earlier…

  Just who did we think we were moving from Wellston, a rough part of St. Louis, to Black Jack, Missouri where the uppity Black folks and rich White folks lived? We didn’t have the dollars, the look…not even a car to keep up with the elite people who lived in Black Jack, but Mama had her faith and pride to keep our family together and moving.

  My sisters, Jesse, Rita and I were teased at school about being different; poor, according to many of the other children who had been born with silver spoons in their mouths. For us, the finer things in life didn’t exist and we were forced to make a way out of no way. There were rarely any birthday celebrations and Christmas was just another day. Money was hard to come by and Mama often sent us to the grocery store with food-stamps; food-stamps that many people in the suburbs hadn’t seen before, until they’d seen them in our hands. We could hear the whispers and giggles while standing in line at the grocery store.

  “What is she doing with those,” one snobby lady said to the other. “Get a job.”

  Mama wasn’t the one to mess with; after all, she did have a job. It just didn’t pay much, but for the time being, it was enough to upgrade our status. Mama turned to the Black lady, as she and her friend pursed their lips as if their shit didn’t stink.

  “Mind your own damn business, heifer,” Mama spat with venom in her eyes. “And one more word from you, in front of my kids or not, I will tear into your ass!”

  Both women’s eyes bugged, nearly breaking from their sockets. They were shocked, and quickly tightened their lips li
ke kids who had just been scolded. Little did they know, Mama could light a fire with some of the words that spilled from her mouth. Her hard stare could break you down and leave you in fear. She was so mad that day at the grocery store, she could have hurt somebody. She ranted all the way home, and since we didn’t have a car, we piled the groceries in a shopping cart, taking turns pushing it down Old Halls Ferry Road, until we got home.

  I was so embarrassed as people drove by in cars, looking at us as if we were hillbillies. More so, I feared seeing some of those cruel kids who made fun of us while walking to and from school. We were teased about every little thing the kids could find. From the light color of our skin, to the hand-me-down clothes we wore. Our nappy thick hair wasn’t a hit, and I’d been officially granted the name “Musty Mama” by a fat boy in my classroom who chanted that name every single day. I remember crying so hard about being made fun of, Mama would say, “Brenda, I thought you were stronger than that. Just because we don’t live up to other people’s expectations, and I get government assistance, it doesn’t make us poor. Things will get better.”

  She must have told me that a million times, but it still didn’t stop anyone from teasing us. And as I looked around at our nearly empty house that had an echo, and compared it to our neighbors’ lavishly furnished houses, I thought Mama didn’t know what she was talking about. To me, we didn’t have much to brag about. The ranch style home on Burchard Drive that we lived in was just a rectangle that kept a roof over our heads. The house had three bedrooms, a spacious kitchen and living room, two bathrooms and a finished basement. Much of the furniture was from the Goodwill and was tacky as hell. It was all that Mama could afford, though, and was a definite improvement from the matchbox house we’d lived in, in Wellston where there were many killings in the neighborhood, theft and plenty of robberies.

  To make matters worse, we didn’t even have a daddy. Many of the other kids in the neighborhood had one, but yet again, we were shit out of luck. I didn’t understand why our family had to be so different from the other families in Black Jack, and there was no secret that we just didn’t fit in.

  I never asked Mama about our daddy, because, somehow, I believed she made us all by herself. She was the sole provider, so I figured daddies weren’t needed. I often thought that maybe things would be different if daddy was around, and maybe, just maybe, we could afford to have some of the finer things in life. Again, that was just a thought, but over the years, I learned to put the thoughts of having a father behind me. Mama had everything under control, and financially, things took a slight turn for the better when she started working as an assembly line worker for Emerson Electric Company on West Florissant Ave. It seemed as if she was barely around, though. And when she was, she was bitching about cleaning the house or doing the yard work. She came home from work one day, fussing about the dishes in the sink not being washed.

  “Didn’t I tell y’all to clean up that kitchen before y’all went to bed,” she said, standing in the doorway to me and Jesse’s bedroom with her hands on her curvy hips. “Get up and go get those dishes out of the sink!”

  It was after midnight—Mama was tripping. I remembered washing the dishes earlier, and Jesse confirmed it as we both tossed our covers aside and sluggishly got out of bed. “We did wash those dishes, Mama,” Jesse whined. “Daaang.”

  Mama trailed us down the narrow hallway and into the kitchen. I stood in front of the stainless steel sink in total disbelief that Mama had caused all this ruckus over a fork that was left in the sink and hadn’t been washed. She pointed to it.

  “When you wash the dishes, you need to make sure every last thing is clean. Get that fork out of there and wash down my sink with bleach and hot water.”

  Mama cut her eyes like a razor-sharp knife and stormed away, leaving Jesse and me standing there shaking our heads. It couldn’t be that serious, but for Mama, it was. Her house had to be spotless and Pine-sol infused the air around us every day.

  Upon turning twelve, I felt like a lost child and was utterly bitter about so many things. My grades suffered; I was constantly being bullied at school. I tried to make friends with the other students, but many of the girls hated me. The boys were cruel, and after what had happened to me in a supply closet one day, it left me devastated.

  I was excited that my teacher, Mrs. Brooks, had chosen me to go to the supply closet to get pencils and paper. Dressed in a dingy pink shirt, a flowered skirt and rundown white shoes, I skipped to the closet. My hair was in a nappy Afro puff that two boys made fun of as I skipped by them.

  “Why don’t you go comb yo hair, ole nappy head girl?” Barry said, as him and Martin giggled. “Wit yo ugly, dumb self.”

  My face fell flat and feelings were hurt by their harsh words. I swallowed the huge lump in my throat, ignoring what they had said about me. But as I was inside of the closet, looking for the pencil box, they came inside. They giggled and closed the door behind them.

  “What you doin’ in this closet?” Martin asked, as he hit the light switch.

  I widened my eyes in the dark, trying to see but couldn’t. “Stop playing,” I yelled out. “Turn the lights back on!”

  My voice sent the two boys in my direction, and before I knew it, one of them placed his hand over my mouth.

  “If you scream, we gon’ beat yo butt. Now, shut up!”

  I didn’t know what was going to happen and I surely didn’t want to get beat up by any boys. I did, however, attempt to rush out of the closet, but one of the boys grabbed my arms and held them from behind. His grip was tight, and almost twice my size, he was very strong. I wiggled my shoulders, hoping to break his grip.

  “Let me go,” I shouted. “I’m telling on both of y’all!”

  They laughed and the one behind me kept a grip on my arms. The other boy stood in front of me and raised my shirt over my head, exposing my tiny breasts. As my shirt was tightened on my face, both boys rubbed their hands all over my breasts. The touch of their grimy hands made my flesh crawl and I stood with tears in my eyes, shivering and afraid of what else they would do to me.

  “She got some tiny ass tiddays,” Barry said. “And she probably ain’t got no hair on her pussy.”

  Next thing I knew, Barry shoved me away. He pushed me so hard that I fell against a shelf, knocking it down. The loud crash caused them to rush out of the closet, but I remained there wounded. I pulled my shirt down and wiped the flowing tears from my face. One of my scuff-marked shoes had come off, so I hurried to put it back on. Needless to say, I returned to the classroom, without supplies. Mrs. Brooks was livid. I told her I couldn’t find the pencils and paper, so she sent another student to go look. So hurt by what Martin and Barry had done to me, I laid my head on the desk so no one would see my unstoppable tears. I told no one about the incident, and every time I saw Barry and Martin, they held up their fists as a warning for me to keep quiet.

  The torture didn’t stop there. On a regular basis, I’d hear those famous words from classmates: “Didn’t your sister wear that yesterday? Uggh, that’s nasty!” Jesse probably did have it on yesterday, but at least we didn’t have to wear the same underclothes. It surprised me as to how many kids noticed us wearing the same clothes, but for whatever reason, many of them did. I guess Jesse and I thought we could get away with it, because we looked so much alike. She was only a year older than me, and we were all mello-yello with dark brown eyes. Jesse’s hair was a long dusty brown, and because I was a bit thicker than she was, that’s how some people recognized our differences.

  As for my eldest sister, Rita, she was five years older than I was. She had moved on to junior high school and things had gotten better for her. Appearance wise, she had it going on. Tresses of long curls hung down her back, and according to many of the boys in our neighborhood, she was known for having one of the most voluptuous bodies they’d ever seen. Rita took good care of herself, and going to school didn’t seem to be an issue for her. She easily made new friends in school, and Jesse and I hope
d that once we got to junior high school, things would change in our favor as well. But before we ever made it to junior high school, something happened. Daddy came into the picture and it sure as hell was no picnic.

  Jesse and I were walking home from Black Jack Elementary School that day. We had just gotten into a heated confrontation with some rude girls in the neighborhood who wanted to fight Jesse because a boy named Chuck liked her. Chuck put it all to rest, when he pushed one of the girls on the ground, causing her to fall hard.

  “Leave them alone,” he said with tightened fists as he evil-eyed the girls who had formed a circle around us. “If you want to fight them, you gon’ have to fight me first!”

  Chuck was pretty thick and none of the girls were about to challenge him. He also had a brother, Darrell, who had Chuck’s back and he was right there beside him. Jesse and I were relieved. These two brothers had saved the day. We ran off laughing and talking about how brave they were, but forgot to thank them for having our backs. As we neared the corner of Burchard Dr., a putting smoking mini-van started trailing behind us. Inside was a man with golden brown smooth skin, a shoulder length dripping-wet jerry curl and a rugged goatee. He called out our names, causing Jesse and I to stop in our tracks. We frowned at the unknown man, and I narrowed my eyes to get another look, before running up the hill to our house. “I’m yo daddy,” the man yelled out the window, causing me to halt my steps again.

  I turned to take another look, but Jesse tugged at my arm. “Come on, Brenda! We don’t really know who that man is.” My book bag hit the ground. I shot off like a rocket, trying to get as far away from him as I could.

  When we got home, Mama wasn’t there. She worked from three in the afternoon, until midnight. We didn’t know what to do and had hoped Daddy wouldn’t come to the door.