A Hand-Up Not A Hand Out: Memoirs of the Life of One Woman's Journey as an Outlier

By Julia Mayo, PhD

A HAND –UP IS NOT A HAND –OUT An Autobiographical Memoir Un- gagged and Uncensored; the Journey of a Woman of Color A Life of Pain, Passion, and Purpose From Civil War to Civil Rights To Current Times Learn how the KEY to Success is: Navigate the System Create a life of autonomy Heal yourself through Spirituality and Faith Opportunity is a A Hand -Up not a Hand- Out

• Language: English
• Publisher: BookBaby
• Release date: Dec 21, 2014
• ISBN: 9781631924699

Book preview

APOLOGY

1

INTRODUCTION

This book like its author is an outlier. It is an autobiography, and a memoir. An autobiography is a time bound chronicle of external facts about one‘s life. A memoir is a subjective, emotional retelling of one’s past experiences. Memoirs tend to be written when one is elderly because the hidden self can emerge with impunity.

No more secrets. When one is near the end of life, and one feels secure, and that no harm is being done to others, the final telling of the truth makes one feel whole. We all have secrets; some of which we are not consciously aware. My secret was known as an open secret.

I was rejected by my own mother because I visibly represented to her everything her world said was defective’; not good enough; an inconvenient obstacle, an embarrassment, that brought shame upon her. The reason? I was another female, not the son she wished for, skin too dark, hair too curly, too tall, too skinny, too curious, too chatty, and not graceful. I was everything she was not. I was not what she wanted, needed me to be for her.

In the depression era of the 20’s and 30’s most middle class women did not work outside of the home. Educated women (usually Irish, Polish and Colored worked in service to the lady of the house of wealthy men of status. My mother had a BA degree in English from St Augustine Episcopal College for Colored Girls in North Carolina. She had been a highly respected teacher in the South. She needed to work not only for the money, and because he personality required it because my father refused to go on welfare. She took the only kind of job available that carried respectability. She found a job as a Lady’s Maid to Mrs. Webster. Madame Webster was married to the Vice President of Sun Oil Company of Pennsylvania. She had miscarried one pregnancy, and could not have any more children. She was willing to hire a person with a child of school age only. My sister was 6 years old, and in first grade at school. My sister is short; light complexioned, smart, attractive, and socially graceful. She had no defects. She would go with my mother to work on closed school days. Mrs. Webster liked her. She would drive by our house, unannounced on occasion to drop off a gift for my sister. She was totally unaware of my existence. My mother would hide me in a closed off room, or behind the door when she showed up. I was like the back yard mut., a dog that was not allowed in the house. I had no identity of my own until young adulthood. Often, I felt like a personanon grata" in my own house.

Let me be clear here. I was never abandoned. Abandoned is different. I was deliberately rejected by my mother in the company of white society. My mother was simply mirroring the behavior of upper class white people. It is another example of wearing the mask. I was well known and accepted in the world of colored. My mother would never abandon me because that would bring shame on her .That would label her a bad mother in the eyes of people who were important to her. She could not permit r self to be perceived as anything except a good and caring mother.

The rejection, i.e. my defects was a secret that I felt I had to keep all my life. Even my father and sister were never openly a part of that secret though each knew something was not right.

I was eight years old. My parents separated. My father knew he could not allow my mother to continue to treat me as less than. They disagreed more and more about social values and class status. My sister and I went to live with him because my mother had to work. She had maid’s day off (Thursday and Sunday) only. My sister and I fully accepted his authority to determine what constituted acceptable behavior. My sister often stayed at work with my mother. We continued to be a mostly together family.

I loved my mother, and believed that, she as my mother must be right to say that I was less than and that somehow, it was my fault I had to do whatever she required to avoid being rejected by her.

Children behave according to what they are taught by people who have authority of life and death over them. Rejection is the equivalent of banishment; the equivalent of ex –communication. The only one who can change that status is the one who imposed the ban. My mother had a frequent expression, you are not up to par It took me years to understand that par is a standard, arbitrarily set by an authority. My mother was not a physically demonstrative person. She was not a hugger like my dad. She was a pat on the arm, a kiss on the cheek, and a there, there person. My father was the opposite. He gave bear hugs. He would pick me up and carry me on his back. If I was hurt he would gently tend the hurt, physical or emotional, and distract me with his great sense of humor. He taught me to laugh at myself, and the world. I would not have survived without him, and his unconditional love. My father was a real person. He was down to earth and one of the most fair and just person I have ever known.

On occasion he would drink too much (a tad of his Irish genes), and tell stories that many people tell only when inebriated, and that he would never mention when sober. He had a fierce temper. When his anger was unleashed, which was rare, I felt like the wrath of God’ had descended. The other side of him was one of optimism, of hope, that inspired gave energy, purpose and motivation to live. It was, and is a powerful spiritual message that states, I see your true self, the self that belongs only to you; own it and be the best that you can be". I am my father’s daughter, for sure.

By the age of 4, I was having frequent asthma attacks. I was living in a toxic environment at home with my mother. My parents had no sons .I became the son, the heir apparent. My father became my mentor; my hero .He saw no defects, only potential. He gave with no request, other than trust, loyalty and respect. I learned from my father that some things in life cannot be explained; they must be accepted for what they are God made them too.

Some snakes are poisonous. Survival depends on telling the difference between them, and avoiding the poison ones. I learned from him what trust, safe, and up close personal space feels like.

My external self is the one you see in this book. That Self is my life purpose, first to be of service to others, and to see the potential, and or emotional need in another person without my ego getting in the way of what I need to do.

I am 90% Mayo; all of the Mayos compartmentalize with ‘alter egos. My grandma, my aunt Carrie, my father. We know how to instantly adapt to a role appropriate to any situation without revealing personal core self. Survival in the segregated, racist South depended on wearing the mask" The whole is always greater than the sum of its parts.

My life had a series of critical stages during which it was necessary for me to create a number of alter egos. Those parts must be integrated into a seamless paradigm to function in the real world as a performance.

My Editor impressed upon me the importance of sharing my authentic, inner core self with my readers, and not to sublimate, nor suppress my emotions, and my personal sensitive feelings. Although, I have always been aware of what I was doing, and the consequences thereof; I am grateful for the insight of my new editor, mentor, because she helped open an airway in my writing. I am now un-gagged. I can now tell the truth as I experienced it in the years that I have lived 88 plus.

Now I am whole. I can breathe! It is called a catharsis. I can be me without censorship or guilt. I am now free to take full ownership, credit, fault and responsibility for what you read here.

2

WEARING THE MASK

My grandparents and parents were born in North Carolina. My grandmother was born a few years after the end of the Civil War. My parents were born a generation later. That was 251 years ago (1863). Slavery has been an accepted way of life for every Race in the world for thousands of years. It is still practiced in some cultures. Freedom, the eradication of slavery is a very new, and fragile process. Our Country itself is an infant in years compared to ancient civilizations. Civil War ended slavery on paper only. It continued active and thriving in the Southern states. Black people were still slaves, property, chattel moveable, and for sale like animals.

During the past year, the Media has bombarded our senses, and psyche with videos of the brutal killings of Trayvon Martin, and Eric Garner. I watched once, and experienced a horrible flash back of a similar event; much worse, a lynching. I watched at my grandmother’s side.

That traumatic event has shaped the core of my personality, the who I am. I was less than 7 years old. It was summer. I was in Parmele with my father’s family. It was a hot and sticky afternoon. A young black teenager, about 17 years old, (a man/child) ran down the road past our house, eyes wide with fear, sweat dripping over glistening black skin. He was panting, muscles bulging with strain of escape. My family and neighbors came out to witness in silence an all too often occurrence. The killing of another black youth was in progress. This uppity, black nigger had not only stared a white man in the face, he stole a water melon from the Master’s field. He had targeted himself as message to the community about proper behavior of slaves.

Young black men, full of testosterone, virile, a budding sense of Ego, and fuzz on the face, everywhere in the world, challenge authority, take risks; compete with peers to be the Alpha Male. It is a universal rite of passage to adulthood. Where slavery exists, this behavior is perceived as the white man’s burden .It is incumbent upon them to keep the black man subservient. It is not a burden. It is FEAR, primal fear that what is perceived is real; that these young black animals will take the power from them, and use it against them. Survival of the white slave owner depended upon his success in breaking, bending, and taming the will, and the spirit of black people. It started with the young males. The way absolute Power is maintained has not changed. It is done by Public Execution. Beheading, stoning, burning at the stake, hanging, are just a few of the ways. Lynching was preferred in the South.

Hush, hush. Take my hand, hold on to me, close. I need you to live child. Bury deep what you see, and never forget it .The seed you will carry one day as a woman for your children will give you the strength you need to survive. This is not about you. It is about the future of our race, our people. Hush, hush. Not a word; not a tear. Save it for later. You must learn to wear the Mask. Watch me, and your Aunt, and the strong women you see here.

Blood Hounds chased him down, the scent of his blood from scraped bushes strong in their noses. The dogs ripped pieces of his body from him. The posse dragged his bleeding, still alive body to the center of Main Street. They bludgeoned it with rifle butts, police batons. They kicked him with hard work boots. They looked tired and determined with their effort. It was the face of hate that spurned them on. They poured gasoline on the body, burned it, and left it burning. Then they went home to eat dinner, a meal prepared by a slave who knew the boy. They returned the next day to finish the job; lynch him They made sure the potential of that ‘man-child would never materialize. That message of lynching was repeated over and over because the Will to live will persist against all odds. After every lynching, the family of the victim, removes the body, and gives it a loving, Christian burial. The family and neighbors met in secret at a hidden place. It is here the Mask comes off. I did not participate in these rituals. They were told to me, over and over by my father’s family. It was about the Underground Railroad; a system where both black and white people of courage, together helped run away black people targeted for death to escape the K.K.K. My Uncle Sandy was one of them who escaped. This was a strong group of Warrior Women whose essential role was to teach others, who had the gift (Healer) the art and skill of deception, witchcraft ,and foremost how to shift into altered states, i.e., Wear the Mask.". Talent is inherited, (Authenticity cannot be faked. There is one only, Leonard Bernstein, one Michelangelo, one Marion Anderson, and one George Washington Carver. The list goes on.

My Certified Clinical Hypnotherapist Certification is just one of my skill crafts that allow me to create altered states for myself and others in treatment for trauma. I used it for the birth of my son, Elbert. I used my mind to induce the same opioids for pain that prescribed drugs create (without the negative side effects.) It was as simple as telling myself I was having a bad menstrual period.

I have spent years academically, earning a license to practice. Anyone who is an expert in whatever skill they are fortunate to possess, knows that thousands of hours of practice must go into that skill until it becomes an extension of their core self. It is about transcending the parts of thinking, feeling and doing separately, and creating a whole that is greater than its parts. It is then that I am able to perform in the moment in sync with the universe.

It is a thing of beauty to watch any living thing perform flawlessly, what it was born to do, from ballerina to eagle flying, to wolf howling. I think good examples of the Mask (alter egos) are comedians. They must wear the Janus face of opposites. Many comedians and other creative people are depressed and or struggling with internal demons at core self. Learning to wear the mask, to suppress my true feelings of rage, anger, despair, humiliation, shame, anxiety, in fact the whole range of emotion has been costly. The body is the only place it can go when not externalized. I have no doubt there is a direct correlation between my asthma since early child hood, and early stuttering (which I corrected myself). My suppressed tears, and do not speak poured toxins into my lungs.

Black people suffer the highest rates of high blood pressure, strokes, diabetes, heart conditions, obesity, lung conditions, addictions than any other group Inability to express oneself creates diseases for generations to come. I have learned the antidote to hate, abuse, evil, especially from those who are caretakers or in the role of trusted friend is always love and forgiveness, starting with oneself. It is very simple. The answer to the question, How did I feel about so many negative experiences?

I felt Job, like Jacob (who had to serve all those Indenture ships)n the Bible I felt like all those women in the Bible, who had to wait, watch ,and serve deprived of voice and respect. Women suffer differently than men. I never felt alone in my painful experiences because they were shared by reading, writing, meditating, prayer, and being befriended by people like, myself. Often I felt awful, angry betrayed. I had conversations with God every day. I overcame depression by the discipline of living one day at a time, a life of Faith, Spirituality, and by using basic values of humility, and sincere charity.

God made the snake that kills with venom, and he made the harmless snake. God gave me the ability to learn the difference between evil and good, danger and safe. It is not for me to kill it if I can learn to avoid it. There is a piece of good and evil in us all. I work every day on my good Self, not my bad self. I pray every day, Christian prayers, Jewish prayers, Buddhist prayers, Native American prayers, African prayers. I pray for everybody, especially my enemies. Prayers work or I would not have lived to write this book. I hope this begins to address the questions: How did I feel? And what did I do?

3

MAKING AN APPEARANCE

A LEO is BORN 08-16-1926

No, It was not a dark and stormy night. It was hot as Hades, The dog days of August when only mad dogs and Englishmen go out. Philadelphia, Pa, 1926. There were no air conditioners. Blocks of ice had to be bought from an Ice Store, cut into small squares and lugged home in a burlap sack. The streets were so hot one could literally fry an egg if you were lucky enough to have one. The streets were paved with black coal tar that melted, and stuck to the soles of your shoes. People spent the night outside of the house which felt like an inferno even after the sun went down. Folks were on the stone steps, the roof, the fire-escape, anywhere there was a cool breath of air. Children slept on pallets on the floor in underwear. A lot of life was lived on the street. My parents lived on Fitzwater Street on the second floor, in a rented room that overlooked the back yard and alley. We were roomers". My father had moved to Philadelphia to get work in the building trades. He went where he could get a job. My sister, almost four years older was born in Virginia. Most women in those days gave birth at home, delivered by a general practitioner and/or midwife. I was born in the bathtub. Tubs were big in those days. Cast iron covered with white ceramic, seated on four metal shaped feet. Some tubs were in the kitchen where the Saturday night bathing ritual took place. There was no diaper service, bottled milk or any other modern female amenities. In many ways it was primitive. Wet nurses were common; if a mother could not breast feed or died after giving birth.

For nine months I had been hearing my mother’s voice, soft, comforting. I sensed the smell of what she ate the rhythm of her body, awake and asleep. I was aware at a preconscious level of the pressure of her hand on her belly when she rubbed it, or laughed, or sighed or was busy I never sensed anger or fear.

I do have a feeling that being born is not a happy experience. My mother was fed up and wanted me OUT She was in physical pain, and I felt it. I weighed over 7 pounds, and must have kicked the bejesus out of her. I had a head full of black curly hair, and was fer dahk (dark) in complexion, I felt yanked around and manhandled. I couldn’t breathe. I was told I was given a slap on my butt, to which I protested loudly. Nice welcome to the world. I sensed the woman who birthed me seemed relieved and happy. She was laughing and crying at the same time. She held me to her breast, wrapped in a soft white blanket. I knew the smell of her milk, her scent, her body rhythms, the sounds and touch that I had in those preceding nine months.

A new scent was the smell of warm gingerbread. We lived over a bakery on the ground floor. The aroma of gingerbread, sugar cookies, apple pie, apple strudel, and all kinds of appetizing pastries permeated the air. I do not remember my sister. She was in Parmele with my grandmother and did not return to Philadelphia until fall. My mother was busy trying to get her older sister and her children to move to Philadelphia so both could work and her older children would care take me. My mother was the only female in her family to graduate from college. I was named for her sister Julia. Her brother Lester was a professional baseball player in the Negro Leagues. Matthew the youngest brother finished college, and moved to Chicago where he worked for the Post Office. The Federal Government was one of the few places educated Negroes could find work. There were too many Julia’s in my family. My aunt was Big Julia her daughter was Julia and I was little Julia I think there was a Julius somewhere on my mother’s side. The darkest complexion in that family was the color of sand, and no nappy hair. I was a big misfit from day one. Big Julia’s husband ran his own Carriage business in North Carolina. She had never worked a day in her life. She was an Upper Class light skinned mulatto married to a successful Negro man.

Black and White society was a Mirror Image in terms of social class structure. Black professionals sought to protect their own status, and tended to look down on black lower classes, maintaining beliefs similar to whites. Economics and war are always the tipping point in the power game of rank and status.

Survival of the fittest lies in nature’s adaptive creative intelligence of a species. Always, there have existed certain ethnic groups; lower class, Irish, Italian, Polish, Jews, Greeks, and Africans who had no land, and were not allowed to purchase land from their own kind who had land. To overcome this kind of inner clan obstacle requires both native intelligence, and a special set of skills. My grandparents, maternal and paternal possessed both. On my father’s side were the art and skills of a lobbyist, a builder, and a healer. My mother had academic educational, and social behavioral skills. Their pragmatism allowed them to deal with the reality of current era situations to get work where others could not. My grandmother, a quadroon was perceived as having added value by a white plantation doctor. She could be trained to be of service to both black and white people in need of non-surgical medical care. My grandfather had skills as a work overseer and as a mechanical problem spotter on trains. He passed these abilities genetically to my father.

I benefited from everything my mother had learned from parenting my sister. My mother had a rocking chair, and she would sing songs, lullabies, nursery rhymes. She read aloud to me, children’s poetry, fairy tales, recited the alphabet, and the basic numbers in the times table. She was constantly talking to me in a calm, well enunciated tone. By the time I was a year old, cognitively, I knew what I did not yet have verbal ability to express. I believe my frustration at not being able verbally put a sentence together right away caused me to stutter What came out of my mouth was babble. The good side effect of this was that I learned to express myself on paper. I learned early to write what I needed to say. At age six I wrote a play for my first grade class about Thanksgiving. (LOL) The teacher allowed the class to perform the play. I now know the facts were all wrong. The Pilgrims lied to the Indians. And the teacher believed the Pilgrims (Not so funny).

4

WAKING THE DEAM

MY UNCLE SANDY—A TIME TO DIE

January 1932, Philadelphia, PA. A Monday evening

I came home from school on a cold, grey day, frozen snow still on the ground, to find a black crepe wreath on my front door, and the front windows with the shades down .I walked inside to be confronted by a bustle of strange people, all in dark clothes, the women with aprons. My father was wearing a black suit I had never seen before .My mother, aunts, neighbors and several strangers were in the kitchen preparing food for what seemed to be a very big, and important something. The atmosphere was solemn, no nonsense. The air felt heavy, musty. The mirrors were covered. I trailed my dad into the parlor, a room I had never seen open before. The doors were always closed. Life in our house was lived mostly in the big kitchen or bedroom. A brown casket with brass handles on the side, set on trundles on a piece of wood covered with a white sheet laid in front of the windows. The casket was open, and in it laid my uncle Sandy. Sandy was my father’s youngest and only brother. He was 21 years old. I had met him only recently when he moved in with us. Sandy must have gotten his name from the color of his hair and skin and light brown eyes. He seemed to be the color of sand all over. In that big long box he looked gray, and frozen to my 6 year old eyes. His hands were folded across his chest. There was a gold cross, and a small black bible in his lap (this would be removed before burial). He was wearing a black suit, white shirt and black tie, black socks and shoes, all new and shiny (cheap, I learned later). His brown eyes were closed, and he looked to me like he was stiff and uncomfortable because the clothes were too tight. Fold-up borrowed church chairs were spread around the room. Some people were already sitting, talking in hushed tones. The room to me smelled stuffy, musty and unused. The lights were dim, people were rocking back and forth, sighing, moaning. There was enough smelling salts and incense to choke a horse. I said "daddy,