I agonized over the obvious questions: How could God have allowed this to happen? Whose fault was it? What should or could have been done to prevent it from happening? How come one sister became pregnant and not the other sister? For days I silently raged against this God whom I loved so much. Again, in my life, someone whom I trusted implicitly, an authority in the Church, had betrayed me, to say nothing of my sisters’ profound betrayal at his hands. On some level, I was also asking, How could my sister not have known something like this could happen? I hated the Bible; I hated the truth; I hated Christianity! So this was what sex and procreation was all about. I didn’t want anything to do with it and vowed even more strongly to remain a virgin. All my illusions about the stork and fairy tales were utterly shattered. I was being forced to grow up.
I remember hearing Nina Simone sing this mournful song:
Trouble in mind, I’m blue
But I won’t be blue always
. . .
Let that 2:19 train
Ease my troubled mind!
I was troubled and blue too. Worse, I was a singing basket case of rage and confusion. I wanted to protect my sister from the scandal and gossip of nosy neighbors and false friends. My helplessness added to my pain and sense of worthlessness. Being a big brother had no special power or perks in this case. Over and over, I questioned my value to the family, to myself! Where were Great-Grandmama Laura Mae and Granddaddy Saul when I needed them? I wished I could just disappear.
My mother and Warren forced my sister to give up the baby, a little boy, for adoption. My sister didn’t want to give him up, and it caused a tremendous rift in the family. After the pregnancy, my sisters were taken out of my mother and Warren’s home and sent to live with a black Islamic family. Mary Lou Phillips was the caseworker; the girls told their stories to Mary Lou, and Mary Lou reported the situation to the authorities. I was always welcome to go over and see them in their new home. There were times when I tried to salvage my sisters’ lives and ambition. I tried to get them to focus on school, but it was hopeless—I felt like I was talking to a wall. Over the years, we slowly drifted apart; the whole ordeal changed my family forever.
And speaking of change, I was at Elaine’s house when I got the call that took my breath away. My mother didn’t say much, just that Great-Grandmama Laura Mae had died quietly the night after her eightieth birthday gathering, amidst her family. The funeral was to be held next week. We weren’t going to attend. After all these years, Mama was still afraid that we would have trouble with my daddy.
Great-Grandmama Laura Mae loomed as a powerful bigger-than-life legend in my mind, a giant. Her death affected me profoundly. I had felt she’d just live forever. Why should a legend die? Why should the passionate and powerful queen of my youth die? I felt her death disconnect me from my past. I felt abandoned and on my own even though I hadn’t seen her in more than ten years. Elaine’s family—the Logans—offered their sympathies and her father, Reverend Logan, even snuck me a drink of whiskey out of an oddly shaped brown bottle from some secret location. I cried while I washed dishes and wrestled with my thoughts. Later, I went for a long walk with Elaine. I tried to share with her the meaning of my Great-Grandmama Laura Mae’s death. She had been the foundation, the bedrock of our family, and now it felt like we’d lost our mooring.
I STARTED WRITING POETRY IN MY SOLITUDE. I WASN’T very good, but I found a way to express my pain. I continued to spend a lot of time away from home and joined the after-school creative writing club. James Baldwin was all the rage then, and I read all his writings. His voice echoed my sentiment on national issues concerning race and power. It was whispered that he was gay, and I wondered how he could be such a great writer and be gay. I really didn’t know of any other gay people or writers. According to the church, being gay was a sin. It seemed like even thinking too openly about being gay was a sin. I wondered if Baldwin had already done what I wanted to do. If he were around, I could ask him what it felt like to be with another man. What it would be like to take a man out on a date, to make love, to talk on the telephone. I wondered if I’d ever know. If he was openly gay, did he have a special friendship ring from another man? Did they live like a couple? How did people treat them? I knew he used to preach. What did God have to say about all that? Was he still a Christian?
In the creative writing class, beyond reading novels and essays, we read our own work in class and offered polite criticism. I was too sensitive to talk or write in any real depth about my emerging sexuality or the racism I had experienced. I did write about my family and my estrangement. I could talk about that.
I didn’t date very much, just enough to keep the guys from teasing me. Just like Hiawatha had said, I was very popular because of my singing and girls seemed to be constantly trying to get my attention. I was set on being a virgin when I married and dating cost money; I preferred to spend my money on music. I was in love with the new black prima donna soprano Leontyne Price, and I bought my first opera recordings of her and William Warfield singing duets and arias from George Gershwin’s Porgy and Bess. For the most part, I avoided those insistent girls and kept to my buddies and my studies.
I studied regularly with Professor Gould and began to prepare myself for a liberal arts education with a major in music. Ron often asked me if I wanted to teach music, but he made it clear that I was good enough to be a performance major. My high school music teacher, Mr. Miller, echoed that opinion. I was good enough to be a member of the boys’ octet, which performed at school and throughout the community. I considered this valuable experience training for my career, and I took the responsibilities very seriously. Mr. Miller would often turn the choir or the tenors over to me to teach song parts. I didn’t play the piano very well, but I could always play the tenor part in anthems and hymns. I would check the lax or marginal boys who were there often just for show. Even though I developed a good sense of humor, I took myself very seriously when it came to learning music. Many kids knew it and groaned when I took over the choir. Privately, Mr. Miller used to talk to me about taking it easy with the guys. But when he wanted the job done, he called on me. He often told me that I was better at teaching music than he was because I sang all the parts. I set the bar pretty high for the other students and showed them that if they were serious about singing, we could have the best choir in the state. When we went to the National Association of Teachers of Singing, Inc., (NATS) state singing contest in Columbus, Ohio, we received the highest rating every time. That kind of success was infectious, and many of the students tolerated my strictness because they liked the acclaim. I also got the highest rating for my solo singing.
DURING MY SENIOR YEAR, THINGS CAME TO A HEAD FOR me with my stepfather at home. I had the habit of sneaking out of the house on evenings to attend performances at Stambaugh Auditorium. My parents’ refusal to permit me to attend these exciting events seemed arbitrary to me. Most of my friends could go, and I felt resentful that I couldn’t. There were touring opera productions or the Youngstown Symphony Orchestra in concert. These were very wholesome events and a great joy to me. One day when I tried to sneak back into the house without disturbing my parents, my stepfather was waiting for me. It seemed I had been missed early on after I had left, and no one knew exactly where I was. My stepfather didn’t say very much, but the look in his eyes told me how much he disapproved. He began to beat me with a belt; I suffered under his vicious blows until he was finished. I just stood there; I didn’t cry out or try to defend myself. The worst part was my mother never raised an objection. As I went to my room, I decided I would leave home. I was too old for this kind of humiliating discipline and would not allow myself to be treated this way again. For several months I could feel the physical effects of that beating. I didn’t have a clue where I would go, but I had