From One Statistic to Another: Against All Odds

By Valentina Journey

In From One Statistic to Another, Valentina Journey shares the powerful lessons she learns growing up the fifth of six children born to an interracial couple. In her home, there is frequent violence between her parents; her alcoholic father leaves when Valentina is only seven. Valentina’s mother doesn’t explain anything to her children, nor does she have any contact with her own family. Before she is even a teenager, her brothers accidentally burn the house down and coerce their sister into selling and using drugs. By the time she is sixteen the author has given birth to a son and is on the road to independence. A second son arrives when she is twenty-one, a daughter when she is twenty-three and finally her youngest son when she is thirty. Tragedy continues to strike her family as her daughter is diagnosed with a serious blood disorder and Valentina loses two of her brothers within two years. Meanwhile, she manages to care for her children, advance in her career, and graduate from college.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Lulu Publishing Services
• Release date: Mar 7, 2017
• ISBN: 9781483465838

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Chapter 1

IN THE BEGINNING

ALTHOUGH MY LIFE looks fairly normal from the outside, I was encouraged to write about the events that took place in my life. Most times when I talk to people, I tend to see other viewpoints, and I often hear You’re right or I never thought of it that way. Also, when I tell some of my stories in order to explain where my insight comes from, people tend to say, Wow, you need to write a book!

I was born Valentina Journey in April 1969, the fifth of six children (two girls and four boys) to an interracial couple. We grew up in a small town in Westchester County, New York, in a neighborhood that was predominantly black. We didn’t fit in because we were the only ones at the time who were what was called mixed, mulatto, half-breed, zebra, Oreo cookie, and any other phrase that was used back then to describe some who was biracial. My mother was a fair-skinned Irish woman with blue eyes, and my father was a tall, dark African American male from the South.

My mother was the queen of sarcasm, and my father was an alcoholic. Unfortunately, that’s about the only thing I know about him. I can’t speak to his level of intelligence or logic or sarcasm, because I’ve had no interaction with him to that degree. One day, when I was around seven years old, he left and never returned. I have so many questions associated with that, but they will likely never be answered. My mother didn’t talk about him or the fact that he left at all. When I asked, she would tell me to let sleeping dogs lie. Except he wasn’t a sleeping dog—he was my father, whom I did know for some period of time.

I remember my tenth birthday, it was raining very hard. I sat in the window waiting for hours thinking my dad must surely be coming or calling for this eventful day. It was my birthday and he loved me; I was his baby girl, for God’s sake, or so he used to say. He fought with everyone else in the house when he was drunk, but never with me. He used to call me baby girl and would sing Easy Like Sunday Morning with me when he was drunk. Once he brought me a brand-new bike. This was an odd occasion because most everything we had was either secondhand or made by my mother. My older brother was so upset by this that he rode my new bike right into a wall and broke the forks. He was really upset, and so was I.

My father used to go down South to see his family every now and then. At least, I think he did, and it was supposed to be my turn to go with him. Again, I don’t know much about him, so I don’t know where down South. When I woke up that day, excited for my trip, he was gone, never to be seen again; he left without a trace or explanation. He would leave at other times too, and my mother would say he was at college or work. I later realized that was code for detox or some form of rehab so he could dry out. I remember once picking him up from what was called Grasslands.

Every time a plane flew overhead, I would calculate that if my dad were on that plane, it would take him X amount of time to get home. I thought I saw him in crowds; I looked for him at every event and milestone of my life. I have waited all of my life for either his return or an explanation for his disappearance. Neither has happened.

Often there was violence between him and my mother, and even my older siblings. More than once, I came home to a house with walls smeared with blood and was quickly sent to the neighbor while my dad went to the hospital, my mother went in a cop car, and my sister cleaned up the mess. No one ever explained anything to me. It was scary, and I didn’t understand.

Though I’m sure it was unintentional, my parents both wounded me for the rest of my life. The practice of not explaining anything to children was prevalent in that time. My mother used to say, Kids are made to be seen and not heard, and, If I want your opinion, I will give it to you. She often spoke in short sentences and what sounded like riddles, which is likely what began the development of deep, analytical thinking for me. I used to try to figure out what she meant. I took her shortness to mean, What you have to say or what you think about this situation is of little importance and likely has no relevance to the outcome that I will choose. I later learned that was true.

To a large extent, I now appreciate the parenting style of my mother because it created a very inquisitive, thoughtful, and determined person. I learned that can’t is not a real word and that nothing is impossible if you put your mind to it. One of my mother’s favorite things to say was, It all comes out in the wash. Just make sure you’re clean, and don’t worry about anyone else. She also said, Anything a man can do, you can do better. Obviously, she had something to prove. We grew up with very little, and Mom used to say, Dear, there are the haves and the have-nots. You are a have-not, and, You have champagne taste and a beer pocketbook; you’ll need to adjust. I often thought to myself but never dared to say out loud, Hmm, I wonder why I’m a have-not? Is there anything I can do to change this fact?

My mother also taught us that one’s color does not matter. She honestly believed that because she was white with blue eyes, then even though her children were brown or tan with slightly different hair, we would also be seen as colorless. It was shocking to her—and I might add, infuriating—when she learned that her children were experiencing racial prejudice. I remember after some incidents in my life, I had to remind her of what she taught me: that regardless of how I had sometimes been treated based on nothing but the color of my skin or my gender, I was still going to do my best, and my best would always be good enough.

Besides my father’s drunken singing episodes with me, there was no physical touching in my family, neither among us siblings nor with parents, unless we were fighting. I was not told that I was loved or hugged at all, to my recollection. I was unsure of the inside and outside world. Things could and often did change rapidly, and bonds with people were easily broken (usually not by me). I would often feel abandoned and confused whenever anyone went away or stopped being friendly. As a result of my upbringing, I never learned to communicate my feelings because we didn’t discuss anything. There was grown-up business only, and not much (if any) room for a child’s feelings or concerns. We kept moving and often heard, Stop that crying, or I’ll give you something to cry about. Strange—I thought I already had several reasons to cry. Apparently they were not good enough reasons, though.

What this taught me …

Most parents do the best they can with what they have. We can’t teach anyone what we ourselves have not learned. My mother was not mean to me or anyone; however, she was broken like us all, and her way of protecting herself was keeping her distance from the beginning, even from her children. No one hugged her, she didn’t hug us, and so we didn’t hug each other. Until the day she died, no one really knew what was in the heart and mind of my mother. Her life was not easy, even though she was white, highly intelligent, and very artistic. Her IQ was that of a genius. The choices she made in terms of her mate shrank her chances to expand her future. She became a single mother of six nonwhite children. I firmly believe she did the very best she could, and hugging or not, she would have laid down her life for one of her children without a doubt.

Also, I’ve come across many other adults who still have not learned to communicate, and they didn’t have my mother. Identifying and communicating feelings is something we all should learn to do because it is important for healing and having meaningful relationships. I would also go as far as saying that a nice hug every now and then won’t hurt either.

I had friends in school that often turned their back on me. We used to refer to this as being a flat leaver. This usually occurred after I thought they were my real friends and were finally in my life to stay; I thought that I could talk to them and that they wanted to hang around me. There were often issues growing up where other girls didn’t like me because I looked different. I was light skinned and had long good hair. It caused many threats with scissors and after-school fights while I was trying to walk home. One Easter, I begged my mom to cut off my hair, and she did. She hated combing my hair anyway because it was so different from hers, and when No More Tangles conditioner didn’t solve the problem, she was happy to accommodate me. The fact that my friends would turn on me was so confusing to me. I wanted everyone to like me, and I could not understand what I was doing wrong.

One day I ran home and told my family that a group of girls tried to jump me. My father said to not ever come home in that condition again. He threatened that if I got beat up, I would have a problem with him when I got home. I didn’t have a problem with him so far, and from what I saw with my brothers and mother, I didn’t want one. The next time this happened, I was riding my bike around town. A bunch of girls stopped me and wanted to bully me. I got so upset and afraid to face my father that I went crazy, daring them to hit me or even touch me. I picked up my bike and threw it at the biggest one of them. Suddenly, they thought I was cool and not to be toyed with. I took my bike and went home to tell my family. I was the hero of the day. I finally learned in that moment how to be accepted by my family and those I lived near. Did you remember that my father left when I was between seven and ten years old? I was already involved in street fights because of something I could not control: my biracial hair!

We didn’t have much money at all, and my mother used to sew a good portion of our clothes. She would sit at her Singer sewing machine well into the night. Often our clothes would match something else in our house, like the curtains, couch covers, or my doll clothes that she made. We had to buy other items like footwear and underwear. We usually got those from the five and dime store (Monarchs), or even the grocery store. We also brought Chinese shoes, which were the equivalent to walking directly on the ground, or Doctor Scholl’s flip-flops. I typically opted for being barefoot, although it was the worst thing for my pitched in toed and extremely flat feet.

Our clothes were made by our mother and came from whatever material she had. She could sew anything, even coats. However, she did the smartest thing ever to make sure we blended in. When dashikis were popular, she made them for us out of interesting material. Our neighbors wondered where we got them. Once they found out my mother made them, the whole neighborhood wanted them. We stood out, but in a way that was cool and trendy.

Because of our unique sense of style and overall appearance, we didn’t quite fit in with