September 12, 1988 Back to School

On September 12, 1988, I came out the front door of our apartment C22 (far right) with Michael, 10, Misty, 7, Megan, 5, and RL (Rocky) 3 years-old. We were on our way to catch the school bus.

If not for RL and Megan pulling me along and Misty skipping around us singing, "We're going to school. RL and Momma too," I don't think I would have made it to the bus stop.

The bus came, the kids from the apartments lined up and I picked up RL to show everyone, this little boy can't ride the bus by himself. 

RL and I sat in the seat behind the driver. Misty and Megan, sat across the aisle a few seats back and Michael, sat behind them. The bus started its slow climb up the hill and I looked out the window and thought how little things had changed in the 12 years since I'd dropped out of high school. I felt like a little girl with my toes curled under wishing I could disappear. The only difference was, my 4 kids were on the bus with me. Disappearing was no longer an option.

It wasn't their responsibility, but they saved me.

Smart Start of Brunswick County for information on parent and family resources for families of Brunswick County NC

Printable pdf of resources available to families with children

A Reason Is Different than an Excuse

Site of Kenan Family Literacy Project

“What do you mean you’re not coming back?” I couldn't believe it when Mildred asked me that. 

Hadn't I just told her? 

Why can’t she see?  I don’t have a choice.

***

On the first day of school Mildred told us that attendance was important. She said that a reason to be absent was different that an excuse. "A reason is something you don't have control over. Excuses you do."

On the first day of school, I had a list of reasons I'd have to quit.

     When they see I'm not smart enough to get a GED.

     Before they figure out there's something wrong with me.

     When our trailer gets set up again.

     Before I push their daddy too far.

So many mornings I got on the bus with my kids thinking that day would be my last. I wanted to go back to what I knew. I'd reached my limit. Not only that, I was asking for trouble. Their daddy had made it clear. I had to quit. 

I dealt in emergencies. Mostly trying to avoid them. I was good at it and I knew I was pushing my luck. I felt it in my bones. I was running out of time.

How it irritated me when Mildred didn't seem to understand. I wanted her to agree with me. I needed her to agree with me.

﹏﹏

"May your choices reflect your hopes not your fears." - Nelson Mandela

﹏﹏

So while I was focused on more important things, like when to quit, RL was busy learning, making plans, and following through. 

It would be awhile before I did the same.

***

Why Did It Take So Long?

Sometimes I think back on decisions and choices I made in life and ask, What was wrong with me?

My internal dialogue goes something like this, If only I had----, How could I have not known----? Why did it take so long for me to make a change? 

I've worked hard over the years at applying knowledge and therapy to help answer these questions.

“I did then what I knew how to do. Now that I know better, I do better.”                                   --Maya Angelou

Much of the time, my head knows and accepts that I did the best I knew how at the time, but old patterns of thinking emerge and I begin another cycle of turning those questions over in my mind.

***

My oldest son, Michael is 41 years-old. He called me several years ago and said he wanted to ask me something. First, he wanted me to know how much he respected me and how much he admired me for everything I did for him throughout his life. But he had one question.


"I remember the first time you kept the door locked and called for help. We were in the bedroom upstairs sitting on the floor under the window that faced the parking lot. Of all the things that had happened up to that point, why then? Why did it take so long?”           

 ***

I wanted to answer in a few sentences, summarize the internal changes he didn't see, that eventually led to the moment of change he witnessed.

But I couldn’t answer in a few words. It wasn’t an aha moment. 

It was a long letting go of a way of life, of giving up what I had always believed in, and finding hope again.

You see, I thought I had it all figured out. Actually, I was sure I had it all figured out. I was doing better than my mom. My kids had it better than I did growing up. Everything was going to work out.

After years of ups and downs, several events happened that shattered our world. I had to face reality. I had to ask myself how close I was willing to get to the point of no return.

***

A Long Battle with Myself

What’s wrong with you? Can’t you see?  Waiting, hoping, pretending isn’t helping. Tomorrow won’t be better. Do you hear me? There’s no one or no force outside yourself that will fix your life. It’s just you, miserable pathetic you. No magic waits around the corner, no happily ever after on the horizon, no one can do it for you. There’s only you.

Why Then?

So many things come into play. Therapy, the support of the teachers and friends in the family literacy program, and other people who, in one way or another, let me know I wasn’t alone.

***

His truck pulls in the parking lot, earlier than usual, but thankfully we are all inside. The doors are locked. Misty's on her way to open the door. I get to her in time and take everyone upstairs and sit them beneath the window facing the parking lot. We finally have a phone (I'm sure that affected the answer to, "Why then?") I plug it in upstairs and make the call. We're only minutes from the Sheriff's Department. I get under the blanket with the kids to wait. 

"Daddy's sorry. He won't hurt you, he promised." 

"Please let Daddy in." 

I wrap my arms around Misty just before she unlocked the door. She’s not sure if this happened on this particular night but, she remembers nights like this and many broken promises. We all do.

The deputy arrives. His car lights bounce around the room. I get on my knees and opened the window to listen.

“Go for a drive and give her time to cool off before you come back. You know how these women are.”

___________________________________________________________________________________

Anyone experiencing intimate partner violence, or know someone who is, are urged to call the 

National Domestic Violence Hotline at 1-800-799-7233 (SAFE)

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I'm Good at Everything Ain't I Momma

RL and me. Picture taken in 1988.

“Would you like to go to school and ride the big bus with your brother and sisters,” I asked.  

“Yep,” he said, grinning ear to ear.

***

It seems like yesterday the little boy in this image pulled me by the hand eager to get to the bus stop and catch the bus with his brother and two sisters. He was 3 years-old and I was 29.

I look at this image and ask myself how could any parent not be their best self for the precious, bright eyed, eager to please, little boy looking into the camera. I wanted to. With all my heart, I wanted to be a good parent to all 4 of my kids.

***

As a child, my go to response in times of stress was to hide if possible and then act as if nothing had happened when the chaos in my home was over. I carried this with me and without realizing it, taught it to my own kids. They knew when to be quiet, when to go outside, or to their rooms and then to act as if nothing had happened. I thought I had some time before they were old enough to understand what was happening and they would learn the important stuff when they went to school.

***

I didn’t know that they started learning the important stuff at birth, before even, and their brains were mapping their experiences. The chaotic environment similar to the one I grew up in was leaving its mark, laying the groundwork for how my kids would navigate the rest of their lives.

Thankfully a few months before this picture was taken a family literacy program came to Madison County NC.

Here's the first public notice.

 The News Record

          July 28, 1988

The William R. Kenan Jr. Charitable Trust in Chapel Hill funds 7 pilot family literacy projects, 4 in NC and 3 in KY.
Parents who never finished high school and their 3 or 4 year-old children will go to school together. An early childhood specialist and an assistant will teach the preschoolers. Asheville-Buncombe Technical Community College (AB Tech) will provide an adult education specialist to work with the adults.

Per the article, William C. Friday, the executive director of the trust and former president of the University of North Carolina, said the trust was backing the yearlong experimental schools because they attack illiteracy on two fronts. While reducing the risk of failing school for disadvantaged children, the schools also educate the parents.



A few months after starting the family literacy program, I told RL he sure was good at coloring.

    "I'm good at everything ain't I Momma."

     "You sure are." 

 And we were on our way to the next 30 years.

Here's Rocky (RL) passing on what he learned to his son.

  

Passing it on to the next generation. 

Rocky with his son, Mason

National Center for Families Learning Celebrates 30 Years of Success

in Louisville, KY 

November 4-6, 2019.

#NCFL19 Come celebrate with us.

Mama

"There's no agony like bearing an untold story inside of you."                                                                                     ----Maya Angelou

Reva: My mama's name.
Aver:  Reva spelled backwards.

"If I could write, I'd write a story nobody would believe."
---Reva Rice Allison

aver:

1. : to declare positively
2. : law, to verify or prove to be true in pleading a case

Retrieved from https://www.merriam-webster.com/dictionary/aver

"One of these days, you'll walk a mile in my shoes. Mark my words. You’ll see the hell I've been through," Mama said repeatedly over the years.

She was right. I did walk a mile in her shoes. I walked some of the same roads she walked in spite of my determination to do the exact opposite of everything she did. I would have denied her existence in my life if I could have. Lord knows I tried. So deep was this desire that she was “Mama” to her four children while I am "Momma” to my four children. 

She occupies quite a bit of real estate in my journals and in the memoir I’ve worked on for the past few years. As I "mark my words," I hear Mama in the background averring hers. 

Going Home

I started this blog by writing about my big brother, Mike. It felt like a safer way in, a side door to return to the past. 

He was the brave one, the one who never backed down, always laughing and so full of life. My two younger brothers and I looked up to him. He was bigger than life to me. I felt like he would never die. 

Searching for Mike's grave.

Michael Ramsey Rice (aka Mike Osteen) was born on July 27, 1955, four days after our mama's 17th birthday.  I think he was born ready to fight and defend himself from the people who called him a bastard and Mama a whore. Even when he was beaten, he still won because he wouldn't quit. He got that from Mama.

I left home and tried to leave the past behind me. Mike stayed behind and died. 

On the run from prison, he fought his last fight on March 17, 1977.  He was 21 years-old.

I blamed the mountains of North Carolina for his death, especially Madison County and the red clay holler that led to our house. Sitting at the helm of our little kingdom at the end of that holler, was our mama, and I blamed her the most.

Over the next seven years I had four children. I became obsessed with making sure they didn't die on drugs or go to prison. 

When I found myself back in Madison County I realized I hadn't left anything behind. I'm thankful for my journey home because it was then that I learned  "I come from a people, not just a circumstance." 
The Boy The Brave Girls by Gary Phillips.

Red Earth Between Us

February 19, 2016

afternoon

Jerry came with us the next day. 





You should have seen him hacking and slashing his way through the weeds and briars with a machete. 

When he saw your picture on the headstone, he was crying.

"I found you brother and I'm getting you out of here."

We tied a shirt in the top of a tree to mark the spot. 

You'd be proud of Jerry. He hasn't had a drink since March 17, 2007. That's exactly 30 years from St. Patrick's Day 1977, the day you died. His daughter bailed him out of jail and something she said helped him get through the anniversary of your death without a drink. I think having that date in common with you gave him something to hold onto. He's still holding on.

February 20, 2016

Jerry and his sons, Patrick and Casey, met the gravedigger today.

Remember how you use to call him "Worm" and make him stand up for himself. Well, Jerry stood up for you today. 

 The roots came up slowly not wanting to let go of the red clay that held them, and you, in blood and earth.

I remember you...

Out front,

unstoppable. 

And laughing, always laughing. 

You slapped your leg when you laughed. 

I slap my leg when I laugh, too.

         Your new home beside Mama in Ashelawn Gardens of Memory in Asheville. 

The gravedigger said he put the red earth back in the hole left by your empty grave. Some of it went with you, stuck in the cracks of your vault and in the crevices of your headstone the way it gummed up under our nails and stained our clothes, stained everything we did. 

It's okay. Red earth connects us. 

We are red earth.