Through Shirley's Eyes

By Brinda Sue Robinson

Who I Am

My name is Shirley, I am the eldest of three sisters, the daughter of Alec and Clara, and the first grand-baby of Julia. I am not a woman given to long, deep, conversations-- rather long, deep thoughts. I was brought up in the South in the 1940s, during a time when black folks were still referred to as colored and white men roamed the countryside in pointy, white hats.

Destiny

Some say life is a simple string of coincidences tied together by insignificance, no more than random shifting, a leaf floating on lifes current having no destination or determination; but, I am persuaded otherwise. I believe that God, the Creator of the universe, has a plan for your life-- just like He had for mine!

• Language: English
• Publisher: iUniverse
• Release date: Nov 18, 2013
• ISBN: 9781491711392

Brinda Sue Robinson

Brinda Robinson, is a student at the Academy of Art University, San Francisco, where she is earning her Bachelor’s of Arts degree in Motion Picture and Television. The youngest of three sisters, she began writing at the age of eight. “Through Shirley’s Eyes” is her first published book. Presently, she is living in Southern California.

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Through Shirley’s Eyes

Brinda Sue Robinson

iUniverse LLC

Bloomington

THROUGH SHIRLEY'S EYES

Copyright © 2013 Brinda Sue Robinson.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced by any means, graphic, electronic, or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, taping or by any information storage retrieval system without the written permission of the publisher except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

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ISBN: 978-1-4917-1140-8 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-4917-1139-2 (e)

Library of Congress Control Number: 2013918795

iUniverse rev. date: 11/11/2013

Contents

Acknowledgements

Foreword

Who I Am

Destiny

Babies Making Babies

January 8th

God Sends an Angel

Miss Luisa

Big Liza Visits

The House

Grandpa’s Boots

Shirley, The Teeniest Matriarch

Saturday Night Live

In the Good Ole’ Summertime

The Big Tin Tub

The Little Giant

Jimmy and Bobby: Enough is Enough

What A Friend We Have In Jesus

The Day Evil Came to Town

Shirley, The ‘Angel’

Down With The Neat Freak

Queenie Must Die

Miss Orell

Louisiana Dreaming

Knute, the Mighty Hurricane

Jimmy Kat: Trouble be Thy Name

Mind Your Manners

Shirley and Gale: Comrades in Crime

Mother Helen

Goodbye Mr. Paul

For I know the plans I have for you, declares the LORD, Plans to prosper you and not to harm you, plans to give you hope and a future. Jeremiah 29:11

Acknowledgements

Nothing is ever done in a vacuum. No feat is ever accomplished without the help of someone.

So it is with Through Shirley’s Eyes. My mother was the spark that ignited this literary fire. It was she who suggested that I write a novel. I didn’t think I had one in me! But, she saw a gift in me I didn’t see in myself.

Shirley’s life gave me beautiful stories to tell, which gave even more inspiration to put pen to paper. So many times I wanted to give up along the way, but the following persons kept me encouraged, and believing that God had given me something special.

Special thanks to my mother, Clara ‘Knute’ Wayne; my sister, Shirley Monroe; my nieces, Chantel Cohen and Jessica Robinson; BFF, Betty Sommerville; friends, Teri Elliott, Vee Carroll; editor and friend, Rachel Boodram; proofreader, Ben Lanham; and Dr. Tran.

Last, but never least, many thanks to my Pastor, Bishop Ron and LaVette Gibson for their prayers, and support; and to anyone else who prayed, or gave me an ounce of encouragement in this effort! Thank you.

Love, Brinda Sue

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THE FAMILY

Jim and Rebecca Toliver

Julia (Te-Te)

James and Julia Robinson

Clara (Knute)

Alex and Clara

Shirley

Foreword

Brinda Robinson has written a unique portrait of resilience in a time of great social turmoil in the United States. Through Shirley’s Eyes takes us deep into the souls of Black folks in Monroe, Louisiana… . We learn through the neighborhood of Shirley’s childhood, that strong women are not simply born that way, but they are groomed from an early age by their community, their churches, and from the love of their mothers and grandmothers. Brinda takes us through the odyssey of Shirley’s early life, and the choices that shaped her into the person that she is today. This uniquely American story, is for anyone who has overcome obstacles, and felt the hand of God in their lives.

Chantel Cohen

Dear Reader: Growing up, I looked forward to the times when the women in our family would sit down and tell stories of their childhood. I always felt that these stories were incredible and fascinating. No matter how many times I heard them, they still entertained me, made me laugh, or filled me with awe. The women in my family are heroic, sacrificing, and larger than life. In particular, I was lucky enough to be partially raised by my Aunt Shirley. With no exaggeration, I can attest to her ability to see, and participate in life with no shortage of courage, compassion, and love. I hope you love these stories as much as I.

Jessica Robinson

Who I Am

My name is Shirley, and I am the eldest of three sisters, the daughter of Alec and Clara, and the first grand-baby of Julia. I am not a woman given to long, deep, conversations—rather long, deep thoughts. I was brought up in the South in the 1940’s, during a time when black folks were still referred to as colored and white men roamed the countryside in pointy, white hats.

To truly understand the journey of my life, we have got to start at the beginning, the place where all great stories begin.

My family, which was my world, consisted of my sister Gale, mother Knute, grandmother Te-Te, and my younger sister Brinda. Without a doubt I loved my youngest sibling, but she stood between me and many good times. How do you ask? Babysitting, curse of the first-born! Like most families, we had our good and our bad. We had our truth and our exaggerations, horns and halos, cloak and daggers. We created music, as well as, noise—All of this acted out on my life’s stage.

One of the greatest lessons gleaned from my existence is, no matter what you have seen, it does not have to become your reality. Thankfully, we are not left to the mercy of finality. I dreamed a dream, and it came true: Here was a little black girl who did not listen to the reasons why it could not be done, but all the reasons why it could. My eyes were wide open. Even as a child, I was a great observer of the world around me, always looking, and listening so carefully. Therein lays the truth of my soul. This story is about eyes that were still waters deep; visions that made me uniquely—my Self. I watched far more than I spoke. Like my mother, and grandmother before me, I saw a universe far beyond where I lived.

Refusing to let others color my world; or my color to determine my destiny, God gave me the strength to endure. He gave me the confidence to take on the daunting task of creating my own truth. Not through man’s wisdom, but Through Shirley’s Eyes.

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Destiny

Some say life is a simple string of coincidences tied together by insignificance, no more than random shifting; a leaf floating on life’s current having no destination or determination, but I am persuaded otherwise. I believe that God, the Creator of the universe has a plan for your life, just like He had for mine. His plan is revealing its mission day-by-day, breath-by-breath. I believe that God sat down in the cosmos, and gave birth to a well-thought out strategy, individual and unique to every person. There are no two snowflakes alike and no two persons exactly the same. Not even twins share the same fingerprints, or DNA. God is a God of detail. The scripture says, Even the hairs of our heads are numbered.

God is a micro manager, the busy boss, making sure each aspect of life’s formula is followed to the fullest. No matter how minute, or minuscule; each particle of our existence has been brought to completion even before the world existed. God, the Master Architect knows the end from the beginning, and all the in between. The grandness of His creativity has no match. He is beyond comprehension, and defies human definition. True to the scriptures, He is past finding out. He knows the journey we take, and why. In the secret of His sanctuary, our pathway to Destiny is plotted. I was not supposed to be here—not according to the normal order of things. Babies are not supposed to have babies, but that was my entry into the world. My mother was a teenager, who married much too young. But, I am so glad God is not affected by our blunders. Regardless of our start, God shows us his favor as He shapes, and molds us by hand. I was that beauty that God gave for ashes. The world became aware of me, on one not so sunny afternoon.

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Babies Making Babies

The following story was told from my point of view: A story about, and told by me—Shirley.

The pain in the young girl’s stomach lingered, though she tried hard to ignore it. Holding tight to her belly, she struggled her way into the small restroom; a space too tiny to be considered a proper bathroom. It held only a commode, window, but no tub. It had no ambition beyond its purpose, but it was a lot more than most people in her neighborhood had. Her cousins still made those frightful, late night trips to the backyard outhouse. For those of you who do not know what a outhouse is, it is an outdoor toilet. You could relate it to the present day Andy Gump, only in the Stone Ages.

The boards usually, in no particular order, sometimes had huge gaps that allowed you to see outside giving your imagination, an opportunity to run wild, an imagination that was magnified one hundred times at night. The sturdiness of the structure was usually questionable. Attractive it was not. Just the thought of having to go into that upright grave, conjured up film—worthy scenes of horror. Dark, dank and smelly, at times the young, girl could not decide if she should hold her nose or her dress. It was impossible to do both; so most times she opted for the dress. Better a nose full of stink than contact with a smear of unknown origin!

Hands down pants were the better choice. Often she delayed going, weighing her need. Could she hold out until she got home or could she not? Many times she did the Dance of the Outhouse; hopping from foot to foot. All the while the giant hole waited. What all was down there? What if she lost her balance and fell in? She would have to ride, or walk all the way back home making excuses for the stink that could not be shaken.

Hard choices had to be made, and time was running out. The outhouse or her aunt’s slop jar which could not hold a baby, were precarious at best. For those of you who are not familiar with a ‘slop jar’, it is a bedside toilet used not only in houses with no plumbing, but in the chambers of the Kings and