People who study human behavior concur that most of who we are is determined by age 5. So, I've decided to look back at my first five years and what stands out for me. I don't have complete memories of that time, but I do have images and I do remember certain feelings.
One image is of me riding in the truck with my Granddad Oscar Cannon. I remember sitting in his lap as he drove. I remember the feeling of absolute joy and adoration I received from him.
Another image is my anticipation of my daddy coming home from Nashville NC. He worked there during the week. Week after week, I asked Mom if he was coming home for the weekend. I was very young then. I remember the longing for him to come home. He represented something for me that was missing when he wasn't there. Life was better when he was home. Life was lacking when he wasn't. Mom had told us daddy was coming home. I remember that pacing inside of me as I anguished over when. I just about jumped out of my skin when I heard that familiar bellowing voice that called out, "Alice Lee!," the name he fondly called my mom. I remember running and jumping on him. He laughed and hugged and kissed me. When he put me down, he took out a shoebox. Jumping up and down at the anticipation that he had brought me something, he pulled a pair of tennis shoes from the box. I didn't have the right foot, left foot thing down, so I needed some help with putting them on and lacing them. I can't remember if I got help or put them on the wrong foot myself, but for the rest of the day, I walked, jumped and played, looking down at my feet with absolute pride. One of my happiest memories with my dad.
Just the same, there was some dark images. Images of being the dark, nappy-headed child that people rushed pass to pick up and play with my baby sister. Hearing that light skinned and loosely curly hair was pretty, I learned that I was ugly pretty early on.
I have a very painful image of how I was treated by others when my baby sister was a baby in diapers. Only 1 1/2 years older than my baby sister, I remember her soiled diaper being shoved into my hand by my older sister. Forcefully, she told me to take it to the bathroom and dip it up and down in the toilet to remove the bowel movement from it. I hated it. I cried and resisted while she threatened to spank me if I didn't. While the soiled water splashed on me, I dunked the diaper up and down in that water. I felt so dirty and humiliated. That shame followed me, manifesting in other ways as I grew up.
I don't know if I was 5, 6 or 7 when this happened, but there was a shift. I remember going to school and decided that whatever I learned, my baby sister had to know. We'd grab our dolls and stuffed animals and I'd create a classroom where they were the students. At the time, we had a piece of furniture that doubled as a chalkboard that became a desktop when you pulled down the knob at the top to open it. With chalk in hand, I taught my students to read, to spell, to do whatever I learned in school that day. My baby sister had a short attention span back then, so I had to threaten her or bargain with her to gain her compliance. I'm not proud of the lengths I went to. Another coercion, if you will, happened when I took an interest in the piano. We had a high-backed antique white acoustic piano in our living room. When I discovered that with one finger I could play songs, I told my baby sister she needed to do this too. Employing my trusty motivators, I compelled my sister to learn to hear the notes and play the piano as well.
Another shift was performing. My sister and I would grab a hairbrush, a pencil or a Popsicle stick and sing into it. We'd plop a stocking cap on our heads so we could have a swinging ponytail and make up songs. We'd sing together. On those days when my mom ran us out of the house so we could get some fresh air, we'd sit on the front porch with flyswatters. We'd soon get bored with swatting flies and gnats and start singing. Even then, we drew a crowd. They would stand and applaud us. We could harmonize even that young! I remember that my mom and dad soon started signing us up to sing at church. My younger sister was apprehensive about it, but I LOVED the spotlight. I loved performing. I loved the energy of it and the approving nods and applause I received. In fact, I remember that music was a safe place. It was something I did well. Even more, my dad approved of me when I did it. I know that sounds minor but to a girl growing into a young woman that heard repeatedly day-after-day how inadequate, wrong, Jezebel-like, unacceptable I was from my dad's lips, it was so wonderful to know that there were three areas of my life where he always spoke well of me: athletics, academics and music.
An extension of this artsy-ness for my baby sister and I was drawing. We'd sit for hours drawing. It was so encompassing that my dad took note of it. He started bringing home stacks of paper for us to draw on. That was GOLD to us. It didn't matter to us that there as writing on one side, as long as the other side was blank. We'd draw and draw and draw, getting lost in it. We were content to stay indoors with a pencil, pen or crayon and draw. Our drawing wasn't doodling but it was purposeful. We created families and life scenarios that we'd express on paper. The name of my major character was Susan Randolph. My younger sister's was Sabrina Randolph. Susan Randolph had a family. I remember Susan Randolph had handsome men in her family that Sabrina's female family members wanted to marry. It amazes me to this day how my younger sister and I created these "families" and worked through issues we observed in our own family, in our community, and on the black and white TV we were sat in front of to entertain us. Issues like love, family and romance were dealt with on paper. Our men and women kissed. We'd draw two heads pressed together with hearts above it. We got scolded for it, but we kept doing it until Mom threatened to whip us if we didn't stop.
How is what was established back then clues to what I am called to do? I was a seeker of knowledge. I loved to tell others about what I had learned. I enjoyed connecting with others and sharing the joy of the connection. Music allowed me to do that.
Even now, I am a student of life. I remember church settings where the preachers would expound on certain scriptures or Biblical passages. Although what they said was received by those spiritual people I wanted validation from, many of their analogies and connections didn't register with me. It just didn't feel right. For instance, I couldn't reconcile what wearing makeup and jewelry had to do with a label of being Jezebel. Or how wearing pants was a sin. Or having to "tarry" for the Holy Ghost when the Bible said it was a gift. I always questioned. Even with some school teachers, if I questioned them, I would be reprimanded, or worst, slapped on the hand with the ruler. Just like a child who has to answer the call from within to walk, I had to question. I guess my son got it honest. I chuckle about it now. God does have a sense of humor.
As I did with my little sister, I have to invite others to seek something greater. I just have to. I can't shut my mouth any more than I could when I was a kid. No number of backhands, whippings, punishments or shaming can turn it off. I don't bully folks anymore, I'm happy to say. I just share and allow the outcome to take it's own form or journey with those I am talking with.
I also have to perform. There is something in it that gives me such satisfaction. Just yesterday, I sang with a group of brilliant musicians and singers at a friend's wedding. I got such a buzz from it. It's another way that I express what's in my heart. It's another way I connect with Something Greater. I sing about what is meaningful to me. I enjoy the art of it, the delivery of it, the swell inside and that familiar flow I learned to connect with at an early age. It feels disinhibiting. My soul dances. Like the little girl who use to dance around the living room while singing "I love the Lord" to the 45 record spinning on the pink phonograph player, I feel such freedom. I connect with the spiritual when I sing. I connect with souls of others and share in the release. It's glorious!
Geography doesn't matter. Whether it's on my front porch or in a stadium, I have to express what I've learned. The vehicle doesn't matter. Regardless to whether it's singing, speaking, writing or working, I have to express my Truth. I have to hone the talents, the gifts, the spiritual insights, the knowledge, the experience in open and empowering ways. My soul dances when I do.
Maybe against this backdrop, it is not surprising that when I took the test of what I am born to do, it came up "knowledge." It suggested that I work in research and development. Now, nothing inside of me wants to do that. Nevertheless, I have a thirst for knowledge. I have a thirst for the deeper and more profound Truth that holds everything together. I'm fascinated with it. Maybe that's why I'm drawn to Psychology and self help. It's the wisdom for abundant living that came out of my suffering. Maybe that's why life coaching appeals to me: Maybe that's why writing is like breathing for me. I get to share the knowledge and the wisdom in ways that helps others to discover the wealth they have inside of them to reach their goals. I believe that is my greatest gift to this world. It might not be received by everybody, but for those who I was created to serve, it will be a lifeline that will outlive my earthly existence.
Before I close this blog, I want to share this disclaimer. I am not sharing any of this about my childhood and my family to dishonor them. God permitted me to be born to my parents, my family, my community, my church. My experience of my childhood is my experience. My mom and my dad loved us more than anything in this world. I don't doubt that. They raised us as best they could with what they knew and who they were. They were works in progress just as we all are. I have the peace that they meant well and I honor them for being the pillars that God trusted with my development. Even my elder sister was little more than a baby herself when she was pushed into an adult role against her will. It only makes sense she would retaliate just as I did when my mom put me in that role after my sister left for college. My older sister was just 7 years old when I was born and just 9 when my younger sister came on the scene. I only share these things because they are a part of my experience. If my honesty can help a parent to rethink how they raise their children or can help to heal a child who carries around shame or guilt, then it would serve a Higher Purpose. I accept that God allowed it. He could have stopped it but He chose not to. I've forgiven that. I believe it's because He knew He could heal every wound and there was purpose in my afflictions. That is enough for me. And I feel humbly grateful, that God allowed me to go through EVERY SINGLE thing.
