I tried my hardest to accept all my mother’s unfortunate choices in men. I even tried to impress them. (Some of the names have been changed to protect the dickheads.) Tales of a certain man in my mother’s life right before my father loomed large in our household. We knew his name, François, we knew he was Lebanese, and we knew he was rich. Despite her great talents, my mother, like many women of her era, subscribed to the belief that a man was her most reliable source of security. The time between the relationships she had with François and with my father was not long; it was even sometimes suggested there had been some overlap, which led to the suspicion that perhaps Morgan was not my father’s child. Drama.
After the divorce from my father, my mother and François reconnected, and she planned an epic reunion with “the rich man who got away.” My mother got Morgan and me excited about the fantasy that a wealthy, exotic man would come and sweep us up out of our run-down digs, and we would be set for life—all we had to do was impress him. I could do that, I thought. Maybe my mother and I could sing a song at the piano? The night of their big date arrived, and while my mother and François were out, I pulled together the best little outfit I could to greet him. I was nervous, because my mother wanted to be rescued bad, and I wanted to be in a nice, safe place too. The stakes were high.
I was home alone when my mother and François returned (I was home alone a lot as a child). Determined to do my part to make this relationship work for my mother, I ran to the door. François came in ahead of her. He was a tall, imposing older man in a dark suit with sharp, mysterious features. “Hello!” I began cheerily, perhaps throwing in a curtsy for dramatic effect. “Shut up!” he barked. “Where is my son!?”
The force of his words crushed every bit of enthusiasm out of me. He was scary. I was only a kid, and this big stranger had stormed into my house, dismissed me, and screamed at me. I ran crying to my mother’s bedroom. She tried to calm me down, but I was inconsolable. I’m not sure if François ever saw Morgan (who had our father’s Black features running all up and through him). But needless to say, no rich, heroic man saved us that day; no man “saved” us any day.
I did not like or trust most of my mother’s men. She had one older Black boyfriend, Leroy, who tried to “protect” us from Morgan during one of his more violent episodes by saying, “I got my piece,” and flashing a pistol. Imagine that: your mother’s boyfriend carrying a gun and threatening to use it on her teenage son, your brother. Sadly, it did make me feel safer; Morgan had become a scary presence to me by then.
However, my mother’s men were not all bad. Nothing and no one is ever all bad. There was a sweet man in my mother’s life named Henry. He was my favorite. He was about ten years younger than my mother and a horticulturalist. He drove an old red pickup truck, outfitted for the field; his many gardening tools, tree cuttings, mulch, and other supplies would stick out from the back. He knew his trade. He was very well educated and grew extraordinary plants that towered over me (mainly some species that were illegal at the time). He also grew an impressive Afro that seemed to float around his head. My mother and I lived in a few different places with Henry, but for a while the three of us were in a small house on a grand estate, where he was the gardener. The place gave me plantation vibes, and we lived in the modern equivalent of the servants’ quarters. But still, Henry’s house was nicer than most of the houses we’d lived in and gave me a brief moment of stability.
I was in the third grade when we lived there, and Henry built me a swing on a big, old tree that was near what looked to me like a mini-mountain made of garbage. One day he brought home two rescue kittens, one for me and one for him. I liked his better; he was orange, with a very special spirit. Ultimately he became mine. He grew to be big and squishy, and his name was Morris, like the icon. I’d sit and swing with him on my lap. We truly loved each other. I confided in him when I had a really hard day at school, which was often. I never fit in with the kids, who were all white and most of whom lived in the estates in that neighborhood. I was the child of the girlfriend of the hired help, and they let me know it. I brought my troubles to Morris. Even if I had had any friends I wouldn’t have wanted them to see I lived near a trash dump. Once, when I was really upset after having a pretty big argument with my mother, I ran out of the house, grabbed my cat, and headed for my place. While swinging over the hill o’ garbage with Morris in my lap, the smell of rotting food wafting over
