AN UNINVITED GUEST

I've always wanted to be a hero. As a child, each night I'd imagine dangerous scenarios, then doze off dreaming of clever ways to save the day. It was in this carefully constructed world of dreams I was most happy. Earl delighted in waking me back to reality.

Earl was the kingpin among my grandfather's chickens. An unusually large rooster with auburn and black feathers that gave him a regal look, he ascended to this level of prominence mainly due to a characteristic he shared with underworld kingpins, the propensity for unthinkable violence. If rooster or hen dared question his leadership, punishment was swift and sometimes deadly. Earl also taught any misguided child who wandered into our yard that roosters should not be chased. Each morning at sunrise, he took his position on the porch outside my window and sounded the alarm signaling the start of a new day. Everyday I looked out onto the porch in annoyance at Earl, only to be stared down into submission. Something about a chicken's eye, Earl's in particular, gave me the creeps. There was a coldness in his stare that made me uneasy. My father had that same cold stare.

Thirteen is a rough age for a child, and if you're a child of scandal, it's nearly unbearable. Such was my life on Sunday September 8, 1974, the day before I started eighth grade. My paternal grandfather was raising me; my grandmother passed away when I was three, and although both my parents were alive, neither was in a position to care for me. My mother was living as an invalid in a nursing home after suffering a vicious beating, reportedly at the hands of my father. I say "reportedly" because this was a story my grandfather never believed, despite my father's conviction.

"My boy ain't had nothing to do with what happened to Sarah, I can tell you that as sure as I'm standing here," he insisted.

My father received a life sentence in Angola State Penitentiary. His fate was an ironic one since life in Angola was the nightmarish threat he reserved for me upon any infraction of his numerous house rules.

"What's wrong with you boy?" he'd roar. "You wanna end up in Angola? They'll lock your ass up for life and make a punk out of a skinny little runt like you!"

These threats had scared me, but at the time I was too young to understand their full implications. At thirteen, now grasping the true meaning behind his words, I wondered what life in Angola would make of my father.

My mother's parents disowned her when she married my father, because she was white, and he was black. It disturbed me that parents would disown their child solely based on who she loved. More disturbing was the justification of this action I overheard adults express.

"Well, you can't blame them, embarrassing the family like that," they snickered.

My mother's present condition miraculously healed all wounds with her parents, although it didn't change the way they felt about me. I occasionally ran into them when I visited Mama in the nursing home, but it was clear to me I shouldn't expect any birthday cards.

"She ain't doing too well today, so don't stay too long," Mrs. Boutte icily informed my grandfather and me on one of our monthly visits.

Mr. and Mrs. Boutte was how I addressed my mother's parents. I could never bring myself to call them grandma or grandpa, which they didn't seem to mind. Mrs. Boutte was a short gaunt woman with dark brown hair and freckled leathery skin, who wore a frown as a constant expression. I remember Mama commenting on how attractive her mother was as a young girl, but the harshness of Mrs. Boutte's current appearance robbed her of any beauty. Mr. Boutte was a tall lanky man, with unusually dark skin for a white person. His attire always consisted of snakeskin cowboy boots, an oversized silver belt buckle, and a green John Deere cap. Throughout my childhood he appeared to be rendered speechless by the sight of me—I never heard the man speak a word. Normally on our encounters he just averted his eyes, grimacing as if suddenly struck with intense pain.

Mama had three brothers, but as did Mr. and Mrs. Boutte, they chose not to acknowledge the blood we shared. With no one else to turn to, my grandfather's home was a sanctuary.

We lived in a small two bedroom wooden house in LaPlace, Louisiana. The house was painted white, with red trim, and located at the rear of a dead end dirt road. Behind the house there was nothing but woodland, every inch of it serving as my playground. Da-dee, that's what I called my grandfather, was retired after working for the Southern Union Railroad Company for fifty years. He stood six feet five inches, weighed two hundred and forty pounds, and even at seventy-four years old, he was solid as a rock. Da-dee had the largest hands I'd ever seen. I remember him having to use a pencil to dial our old rotary-style telephone because his fingers couldn't fit in the holes. His complexion was described as blue black, a result of years working under an unforgiving Louisiana sun. His dark skin, combined with his clean-shaven head and face made him glisten after working up a sweat. He epitomized what the legendary John Henry must have looked like.

There weren't many demands placed on me, outside of expectations that I do well in school, and take care of chores around the house. Da-dee and I got along quite well, our only bone of contention being the house temperature.

"Da-dee can we please put on the air conditioners," I pleaded every night during summer months.

"We don't need them," he always answered. "If you just open your window, you'll get a nice breeze in your room."

"But there is no breeze, its one hundred degrees outside," I whined.

"Well just turn up the fan. But them air conditioners have it too cold in here at night."

In summer months it was over ninety degrees at night, which is miserable sleeping weather without taking into consideration the brutal humidity. There were two air conditioning units in the house, one in Da-dee's bedroom, and the other in the living room, which was located directly across from my bedroom. Da-dee conceded to running the air conditioners during the day, but insisted they weren't needed at night.

"You sleep with that cold air blowing on you, you sure to catch a head cold," he warned.

My solution to the problem on nights when I could not bear the heat was to simply wait until he was asleep—a state announced by his snoring—and then turn on the air conditioner in the living room.

"Kevin, you turn this thing on last night?" Da-dee would ask the next morning.

"Yeah, but just because the breeze died down," I would answer, flirting as close to sarcasm as I dared.

We didn't get a chance to spend much time together Monday through Friday due to my schooling and homework, combined with Da-dee's various work projects. He had a little red woodshed behind the house where he built and repaired furniture for people in the area. The building had no air conditioning and one window. I wondered how he could work in that unbearable heat, but old habits die hard, I guessed. Saturdays were also busy for Da-dee, who worked most of the day and used Saturday night to prepare his sermon for the next day. Da-dee was a Baptist minister. Sundays, however, were great. After church we spent the entire day together. We would take in lunch at a local restaurant and talk about the good old days as Da-dee called them.

"All Mama and Poppa had to give my brothers and sisters and me was love, but that was more than enough," Da-dee said. I envied him.

Overall, life at the house was good. It was life away from it that was a daily trial.

The world held few welcomes for me. I didn't seem to fit in anywhere, in part, because other people didn't know how to place me.

I had inherited my mother's white complexion, but bore my father's black features. It was apparent that I wasn't white, but I didn't look black either. In our town if you weren't clearly identifiable as one or the other, you were a curiosity.

"Hey, what are you?" kids asked when meeting me for the first time.

"Well my mama is white, and my daddy is black," I politely explained.

"So what does that make you?" they demanded to know, as if a choice must be made before the relationship could move forward.

"I don't know, I guess black."

Da-dee always told me I was black. "If you got black blood in you, regardless of what else you might have in you, people in this country go'n think of you as black," he said. I accepted this answer, although the question remained a source of irritation.

Another problem was my size. I was puny for a thirteen year old, and anyone looking to enhance his status as a tough guy on the playground needed only look in my direction. Factor in my love of books, which I openly displayed by choosing to read during recess as opposed to playing baseball or whatever sport was in season, and I was a bona fide target in any schoolyard.

"Its recess, Kevin, you little weirdo, why are you reading?" kids taunted as I sat with my nose buried in a book.

"I just wanna finish this chapter," I replied, thinking this logical answer would suffice.

"Well finish it after recess!" they responded, kicking the book from my hands.

I remember feeling that the world treated me as if I were an uninvited guest.

As I lay in bed Sunday night drenched in sweat awaiting Da-dee's snoring so I could turn on the air conditioner, my singular hope for the new school year was that I could maintain the surreptitious existence I had created for myself. Everyone knew the stories about my parent's scandalous union, my mother being attacked, and my father's subsequent imprisonment, but even in our small town, after three years, these stories had grown tiresome. Little did I know the next morning my checkered past would once again become the talk of the town.

Our Daily Bread   |   Contact   |   Advance Praise