It was September 1979 . . .
My life had been spinning like a top since I’d regained custody of three of my four children unexpectedly. One of them, my two-year-old, had passed away in the custody of the temporary custodian, who was also a family member, so in 1976, when I was handed an opportunity to have my children again, I went right out to secure what I would need to “qualify” as a mother again. I also had two other children, so I was placed on six months’ probation, and if anything went wrong, all the children would be removed from my custody.
I’m sure you’re wondering how any of this happened in the first place, but let us just say that influential people can make anything happen, and the “have-nots,” so to speak, are relegated to silence. When we do speak, we are taken with a grain of salt because we do not have power behind our speech.
Anyway, I was three years into my new custody, having not had it for six years prior and what I thought would be a “Brady Bunch” reunion, had turned into my attempting to introduce a ten year old, nine and seven year old to a one and two year old, and explain how the younger ones came about while I never regained custody of the others.
So here we were in 1979. My older children had been in custody in the south. They knew nothing of living in the North where I lived, so there was a lot to learn. The southern twang in their voices was mocked, their skinny limbs and lack of street knowledge made them stand out, but I was always there to buffer the worst of those attacks.
In June of 1979, someone introduced me to a government program that allowed the poorest people to move out to the suburbs, using a new certificate program that would make a big difference in how we lived, thought, and reacted to life. We were promised smaller classes for our school-aged children, bigger and bluer skies, less crime, and a chance for them to see that it is possible to live without the vermin, crime, and potential sacrifices of life in the inner city.
I ran to that program, went through the suburban “school” if you will, that helps us make the transition from survival to thriving in a new setting. I qualified for a three-bedroom apartment in the unincorporated city of Palatine, IL, and it was goodbye, Chicago, and hello manicured lawns.
We were taught at that “school” not to expect there would be a “corner store” or people willing to give you a cigarette as you walked down the street. In the inner city it is regular to ask a perfect stranger, “Hey, you got a cigarette?” followed by the audacity to ask for a match to light it. Yes!
You might ask, “Where was your faith during this time, Zenobia?” and I could not rightfully tell you. I was thirty years old with five children, a violent ex-husband to run from, and a head full of tattered dreams. I still listened to gospel radio on Sunday mornings, but in the afternoon, when the music switched to the latest hits, and I was frying chicken and making corn bread and Collard greens, I would secretly sip on rum and Coke, which my older and more perceptive children figured out in a hurry was the stuff that made me happy and fun-loving.
So, here I was in 1979 in this new and spacious place. The children had adapted. I never did. The pristine cleanliness and lack of many other so-called minorities made us stick out like sore thumbs. Most people were accepting of us, but I caught the suspicious eyes of many who did not want us there, and it made me nervous for my children.
After a whirlwind of back-to-school shopping, in which benevolent (well-to-do) families adopted our “less than fortunate” children, buying them name-brand items we could never afford, it was finally time to send these little ones back to school. My children had never been on school buses. Our inner-city schools were walking distance, so when a neighbor knocked on my door and said, “Grab a cup of coffee and join us in the first day tradition,” I poured milk into a cup (not a big coffee drinker) and rounded up my little ones.
Outside our apartment complex, about ten buses were idling at the curb. Bus drivers identified themselves and the schools they were going to. Children, mine included, heard their school names and went to their matching bus. Brand-new clothing, brand-new school supplies, smiling yet nervous faces, and off they went.
I remember feeling teary-eyed, just as I am now. When all the children were finally on board, we, the remaining Moms (no dads in sight), cheered as the buses pulled away. We lifted our cups in mock celebration, but for some of us, there were tears. In years to come, we would still lose our babies to crime, illness, and drugs.
As we saw those little hands waving to us from inside the big yellow buses, we had no idea what would come next but even when there was a little hope, provided by God that made us proud of our effort, we smiled bravely and returned to our little apartments, where moms like me, looked out of the windows, and wept, not knowing why.
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