La La

By Ruinese Sheard, PhD

To tell the truth, like loose change, there is a story hidden under sofa cushions in every family home. If La Las ole sofa could talk, her story would be a best-seller. Its a story of one womens passion to live despite the adversities of incest, marital abuse, and insanity.

Funny, they call her La La. Why? When her name is really Ellen Marie Roosevelt? Number fourteen of fifteen children, who lives in the Roosevelt asylum. La La was around an endless crowd of beautiful black folk who partied all the time, it seemed. She wasnt part of it; she was always alone, scared. She hid, wanting to leave the light on to catch the mean perpetrators who got their kicks from their attacks on her. This scared thing was masked superficially with lots of inappropriate giggles, singing, and unbound hysteria. She buried her true self deep, deep, I tell you, and gave lots of La La until she became La La.

A marital hell was home for La La and her tormentor, so-called protector, a real-life Frankenstein, whom she met as Franklin Morris. They live and love in a double-bound madness with four distinct personalities occupying two bodies, each vying desperately for the up position. The four of them and their children spend over twenty years as fugitives, running from themselves, thinking it is the police, the FBI, and Veterans Administration. They succumbed to their existence as they battled their empty wars of hallucination. The desperation comes when they no longer can identify the abusers from the abused. Everyone gets their share. Everyone gets La La.

La La wraps the reader into a mind-stretching web of love and terror that she continues to weave poetically throughout her story blow by literal blow. Her story draws you into empathy for the bad guy as much as compassion for his victim. Read her story. Get La La!

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris US
• Release date: Mar 4, 2016
• ISBN: 9781514471760

Ruinese Sheard, PhD

Dr. Sheard, author and president of TLC, is a behavior strategist/coach with over thirty years of experience. Sheard is a motivational speaker, was named Nordstrom’s Woman of the Year, and is listed in Who’s Who, Women in United States. She has authored two self-help books. Her latest genre, nonfiction biographies.

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Contents

Introduction

Part I    Li’l La La (8–16)

Part II    Living the La La (17–23)

Part III    Movin’ … Nowhere

Part IV    A New Life … Again

Part V    La La Connections

Introduction

T o tell the truth, there’s a story hidden under sofa cushions, like loose change, in every family home. If La La’s old sofa could talk, her story would be a best seller. she always felt erased, invisible in the crowd. When she was little and clumsy, even as a young lady, she just couldn’t fit in. You know, the family cliques, the school sets, the social in groups. This never happened for her ’cause she felt that she was always on the outside lookin’ in. Around a million people, but a lone.

Oh, she was the different one in the house, all right. Afraid most of the time, she masked it beautifully with an awful lot of giggles and singing; see, she loved to sing. Lots of shuckin’ and jivin’, talkin’ loud. You know, she had to mask that deep-pitted fear—had to ’cause she didn’t want to get found out. So busy coverin’ up, givin’ everyone all the La La. In fact she gave La La until she became La La. That’s what everyone called her, but her name is really Ellen Maryie—Ellen Maryie Roosevelt of the infamous black Roosevelts, not to be confused with the famous white ones.

There were always crowds at the Roosevelt house, wall-to-wall folks, laughter, music, drinking, partying—you know, their brand of fun. Mamma Bernese was there, but never one-on-one. Loving expressions were not part of Ellen’s memory of growing up; it just never happened. I love you was not uttered in the house. Mind you now, Mamma Nese was a loving person—she was. Everyone wanted to be around her. She was loving, but tired after fifteen kids. She had twenty-one, you know, fifteen lived. Fifteen, who sucked all the love out of her. What was left, she fought to keep; can’t blame her. Ellen was number fourteen and needy.

Something happened to Ellen when she was a little girl that stuck with her all her life. It became so embedded in her life that it colored every area of her existence. She confesses that it haunts her still. Being scared, more like paranoid, all the time is probably why she believed that she was a virgin until she was twenty-three, even though she had been raped all her life. She was afraid of being raped again and again—hear me: terrified. She was scared of men, scared of being punished for doin’ the wrong thing. Ellen felt a deep guilt for being raped when she herself was indeed the actual victim. Why didn’t she know that? Why did she feel so guilty for what someone else had done to her? She didn’t know what wrong thing she had done, but she knew that she was the one that made it happen. This feeling of conspiracy penetrated her mind, lighting every corner like a searchlight that found no harbor.

She hid in hysteria, in a self-imposed madness. Ellen always wanted to keep the light on. It made her feel safe—you know—no one would harm her in the light; everyone would see, she thought. Her mantra, Leave the light on please.

At twenty-three, she married a stranger called Franklin Morris. At last someone had come into her life who would protect her from the shame of being a weakling, a freak. Frank could be her savior, but was he? That fantasy didn’t last, for she figured out right away that the marriage was a nightmare, a dark place where she couldn’t turn on the light. This innocent lady is surely being punished—punished for marrying this man called Franklin Morris for all of the wrong reasons. Love … never entered her consciousness! She had married him because she wanted to prove she was okay. She had hoped that the marriage would prove that someone wanted her. Most of all, she wanted and desperately needed a protector from the family. Yes, more importantly, a protector from the one she feared most: Ellen the other one—her alter ego. See, Ellen was that part of her that was strong, clearheaded, and healthy. Ellen was always begging La La to get it together, to get help. La La just knew that Ellen was out to get her too, so she hid from her and was damn scared that Ellen would take over one day and she, La La, would be dead forever.

He might have been called Frank, but he really was her very own personal Frankenstein, with all of the mystery and horror of that connection. She thought that she was screwed by her dad, her brothers, her brothers’ friends; but now, she really was screwed by the most notorious one of them all: Franklin Morris, her husband. She went from the frying pan into the fire. Frank really was her own personal Frankenstein, all right. He might have won her heart but took her life; he got La La.

She was convinced that she deserved all the hell that happened to her because she married him. After all, she was a liar and a fake. She always thought that. She believed that she went from a life of sleep to a life of dead.

There were four of them in the marriage bed living out a nightmare of hope and constant insanity-laced failure. There was Franklin, that personality that was bitter and crazy. He was crazy—no, for real. He was a schizophrenic, paranoid, with manic depression—no, that was the professional diagnosis. You see, he too wanted desperately to be accepted, to belong. He needed La La to help him hide from his psychotic world. He needed someone on which to project his sickness, to bring out his pimp daddy, gangster ego—the one that he had created to make him feel sane. This ego was addicted to drugs, alcohol, control, brutality, and power. How else could he prove that he was acceptable? Whispering Grass, on the other hand, is the alter ego of this man. He is bright, intelligent, quiet, a shy family man. Whispering Grass longed to be the perfect husband and dad but blamed La La for his failures, his frailties. No wonder he was determined to destroy her; he had to.

Like Frank, there are two personalities of his wife as well. There is Ellen Maryie, the host personality of La La—a talented, strong woman, a loving mother, and professional. Then there is La La, the scared, immature personality who has been abused by everyone close to her, including—and especially—her alter ego host Ellen. Ellen spends her life attempting to get rid of La La.

These four sick personalities meet in a vicious need to perpetuate their insanity, to support their weaknesses. The four of them are living in two bodies vying for the up position. The two strong ones, Frank and La La, are the ones who dominate the marriage, their lives. They reign supreme in a terror-infested nightmare. Ellen and Whispering Grass, the sane ones, only meet in glimpses of momentary sanity. These two are life mates; they could have been made for each other. Their love is the strong undercurrent that keeps the four going.

The marital hell lasted over thirty years. Frank and Ellen lived in a double bound madness. Those four and their children existed as fugitives of the police, FBI, and the United States Veterans Administration. The abuse reaches new heights of horror as they move from place to place, running, hating their existence. Use of guns, military arms, and ammunition are commonplace for the Morris family. After all, they are determined to win the war even though it is central to their hallucinations. The confusion comes when they no longer know the abusers from the abused. The prayer is that Ellen and Whispering Grass will triumph over the diseases of the other two. Everyone gets a share in it. Everyone gets La La. The four of them cannot live happily ever after. La La tells us her story as it happened, blow by literal blow. Let La La tell you her truths.

Part I

Li’l La La

(8–16)

T hey call me La La … I don’t know why. Most of the time—no, all the time, I think nobody knows I’m here. Have you ever wondered how it would feel to live in a train station? People comin’ and goin’ and nobody really talkin’ to each other—that means any kind of talkin’. Yeah, and here I am sittin’ in the middle of all these people, and nobody knows I’m here. I want to take this big bow off my head ’cause it keeps hangin’ in my eyes. A big blue, or what used to be blue bow of satin, just sittin’, propped on top of my nappy b raid.

You ever been scared? There was never a time when I wasn’t. My life, just one scary thing after another I feel erased, I always want to hide. I am invisible in the crowd. I might be little and awkward, but I try to fit in. It is so weird. Even though I am always scared, I make a lot of noise so someone will see me, notice I am here. You know, the family, school friends, the special in groups. This never happens. I seem to be always on the outside lookin’ in. I look at myself in the hall mirror—it’s me all right. I am one of the light ones, people would always say. I am, I guess. My mother, we call her Nese, describes me as being what old folks call marianey. You know, I am pale, yellow skinned, red nappy hair, with what Mamma calls bucked teeth. When I look at me, I see not good enough—you know, plain and ugly. I’ve been told I look like her, but she’s fat and freckled. Nothing seems to bother her, not all the kids, the people, the loud music, drinking, dancing, and talking—nothing. Guess she had to get used to it; she had fifteen of us.

I am the second youngest, number fourteen. Sure wish Donnie would stop singing or somebody would turn the record player down. He’s singin’ On the Road to Mandalay again. Donnie sings all the time, drinkin’ or not, that’s what everybody says. You know, he’s one of my older brothers, one of the dark ones. They say our grandmother tried to scrub the black off him, and that’s what messed up his skin. His skin is full of sores, flaky, and dry. He is always scratchin’, lookin’ at me with the one big eye. The eye thing is a family thing. A lot of the boys in the family, including Daddy, have one regular eye and one small one. Then here is Clay, another brother, and his two friends playin’ cards and listening to the records. Clay is the storyteller and joker in our family. He can get on your nerves for real. Bithie is my little sister; she’s always runnin’ around. I never see her just sitting down. Nese is cookin’ dinner. Lesie and Mazie are over—they are my older married sisters who live away from home now. They may have moved out, but they are here every day to boss us around. More like mamas than sisters.

Everybody will be comin’ in pretty soon for dinner. Daddy is sittin’ in his big chair, drunk again. Whenever he gets drunk, and that’s every day, he sits in that chair and reads these little books. Sometimes he rocks back and forth and mumbles, Mazie, Lesie, Willie, Marcha, Gump, Eddie, Bump and Lad, Donnie, Clay, Cliff, Christie, Justin, Ellen, and Bithie! These are the nicknames and the way my brothers and sisters were born. Daddy acted like he needed to say their names over and over; otherwise, he may forget or somethin’, I guess. Seems silly to me. Oh, by the way, you probably figured out I’m Ellen. Ellen Maryie, that is. So why do they call me La La? I don’t know if Mazie made it up or Lesie made it up. They’re the ones that give everybody a nickname.

People say that they have a hard time figurin’ out who all of my brothers and sisters are. Let me help. The oldest one is May Anne, we call her Mazie. She is only four foot nine and wears a size 4 shoe. She is married to Homer, and she’s the one who gives everyone a nickname. Then there is Alisa—her nickname is Lesie. Lesie is Buddy’s mother and the boss of the family. She’s married to Carl, Homer’s brother. William, called Willie, is a tall handsome US Navy man who is a big hit with the women. Marcha, the flaming redhead, is an alcoholic who we love to call Marcha, ’cause she is always marching in and out of the house with a paper bag of wine under her arm, looks like a rifle. The boys begin here, nine of them. There is Gary, who we call Gump the flirt; Edward, called Eddie, another mariney one with red hair. The twins: Bennie called Bump for the big knot on the back of his head, and his brother Larry who everyone calls Beany ’cause he is the smallest boy. Donald is one of the dark ones. Donnie, we call him, has the most beautiful voice; they say he is a baritone singer. Clayton, known as Clay, draws cartoons all the time and tells jokes till you want to hit him. Clifford is the genius in the family. He can do math upside down and likes to sing Western songs. He doesn’t sing that good, but we all listen. At last another girl, Christal, known as Christie. She is the dancer and singer. What a voice, and she is the one that does our hair every Saturday. My favorite brother is Justin—no nickname for him. He plays the piano and draws pictures for anyone who will watch. I just love Justin. Then there is Ellen, that’s me; they call me La La. Last but not least in any way is Betty Anne; we call her Bithie. My older sisters were teasing my mother about having so many kids. They told her if she had another one they would call her Tabithie. She did, so we just call her Bithie for short. Now you have met my brothers and sisters.

My brothers sometimes say mean things to me: You got skinny legs, You pale, yella nigger … ooh what happened to you? Pick your nose, you got boogers.

How come they do that to me? Nobody talks to me. They say mean things about me and pull my braids when I’m in their way. but … oh well, forget it. I do have somebody, I have Buddy.

Me and my Buddy do everything together. Buddy is only six weeks younger than I am. We have always gone to school together. Music is one of the biggest things that we have in common. Pretending and playing house is up there too. He loves to make up stories, draw, and play the recorder. I think he looks like Aladdin in the story of Aladdin and His Lamp. He has dark curly hair, tanned skin, pretty white teeth, and a big smile for everyone. My sister Lesie makes sure he has the finest clothes, so my brothers act like they are jealous of him. Being the only kid that his parents have gets him all the stuff he wants. He doesn’t have to share like we do.

I hear the grown-ups talking about life after the Depression here in Los Angeles. All the boys in the family have to work after school and help out with the house bills. There are the gasoline wars, starving people in soup lines, and so many people out of work. Anyway, that’s what I hear the grown-ups say. Never heard of gas having a war … oh well. But with us here, things are a little different. We don’t know the difference; we have always had it hard. There’s not much talk about being poor; everyone here is poor, and so that’s it. We work, laugh, and party hard—that’s what the grown-ups say. Well, here I am, daydreaming again. I do that a lot.

Lesie, where’s Buddy? I made my way into the kitchen and up to Lesie.

Ellen, Buddy’s outside somewhere. Go find him and tell him to come on, we’ve got to go home. Go on! Well, he wasn’t in the backyard, wasn’t in the front yard. Cliff and Eddie are out there lookin’ in their friend’s car. Oh, Christie’s in the car. Wonder what she’s doin’ in there? No tellin’ with Christie. Everyone says she is fast. I am not sure what that means, but she talks all the time.

Hey, what’s Christie doin’?

She’s playin’ like she’s drivin’ Bob’s car, ain’t nothin’ to it.

Seen Buddy? I asked.

Do we look like we have Buddy in our pants? Eddie blurted out. Nasty comments and hiccup laughs moved through the group.

Christie said, Hey, Ellen, are you stupid? Buddy’s under the seat. She pointed down. Running over to the car, I felt kinda dumb, but my feet let my heart down and kept me runnin’. I fell into the door.

Buddy, I said. Buddy, you in there?

Christie just looked at me and said, You sure are so stupid. Do you think Buddy could fit under the seat? The world laughed so hard, I couldn’t hear myself breathe. Laughter spilled from the corners of my mouth, and I shouted hysterically, I know huh? I laughed and laughed and laughed and laughed tryin’ to bury the tears in my stomach. They did it to me again, and I let them. Stupid me. How could I be so stupid? Just put one foot in front of the other real fast, and you will move from here. These were the words I heard in my head. My tears fell inside my head, had to—couldn’t let nobody see me cry.

There was an old house across the street. The people had moved out, and no one lived there right now. Feet took me over there. I’m scared to go in, but I can at least hide in there. Up the steps I leaped, almost to safety, away from Christie and them. The porch was big and rickety, tickety—a plank out here and one out there. What were those sounds? I stretched my neck so as I could peek around the corner to see who was behind the front door. It was Buddy. "Buddy, what are you doin’ in here?’

Sit down, I’m pretending … this is my castle and you are my queen. Come in, my queen!

Buddy, you’re crazy! My arm stretched out straight to shake his hand. His arms went around me, and he squeezed me so tight. Buddy and me, from time to time, would pretend we were married, and he would stick his fingers on my bottom, and I would feel his bottom. There is nobody like my Buddy. Is that wrong? It might be; we don’t let anyone see. It is fun to play with him. He is my best friend.

Buddy, Lesie wants you to come right now. She said you guys have to go home. The door was shut, the steps were jumped, and in a flicker we were standin’ in the kitchen at the house.

See you later, Buddy.

Bye, bye, my Queen Ellen. I liked it when Buddy called me his queen. He was sort of my protection against my mean brothers and sisters. Oh, except I guess Christie. Wait, I remember …

It was last year when I was seven years old. We lived on Twenty-third and Ascot Streets in LA. Christie used to tell me that I was white. I remember saying, Am I? She would say, Yes, you are white. I was really confused about that. Maybe that’s my problem, I am white in a colored family … No, that can’t be.

Down the street from us were two kids: Mel, twelve years old, and his sister Ethel, who was nine years old. They used to hear this kind of talk from Christie. Mel had his sister pick on me all the time. Pushing, shoving, and hitting me for no reason, and I was scared of both of them.

Christie told me that she was going to teach me to fight, and I didn’t like that at all. One day, Christie was teaching me to fight when Nese caught us at it. She said, Christie what are you doing? Christie said, I’m teaching Ellen to fight. She’s white and has to learn how to protect herself. Nese told her to stop hitting me, and she did. I guess she thought hitting me would make me learn to fight back. No, it didn’t make me hit back; it made me hurt.

A few days later, Mel and Ethel came down the street and saw us. Mel told Ethel to hit me. Christie said, Ellen, do what I taught you to do and fight.

I said, I don’t wanna fight. My sister said, you hit her right now."

Christie said, You have to. You hit her right now.

I was knocked off my feet; Christie socked me in the face.

I repeated, I don’t wanna fight. Christie took matters into her own hands and beat both of them up, right there on the sidewalk. I was scared the whole time, but after that, Mel and Ethel left me alone. I still don’t know why Christie used to say that I was white, unless it was because I was light-skinned. Anyway, Christie was my protector too, I guess. You know what, I could see myself get socked that day. It was like it was La La, not me. You know, sort of like there was two of us. Poor La La.

It was during the thirties when all of that was going on. I remember, we Roosevelts lived on the east side of Los Angeles on Twenty-third and Ascot Streets. People would say to Nese, How in the wide world do you get all those kids in that one house? Well, the girls sleep in one room; we have a big iron bed that the three of us sleep now. Mazie, Lesie, and Marcha are married and living away from home, but they used to sleep on this bed. We have one drawer apiece in an old black highboy dresser. We share the top drawer for socks and ribbons. The closet is small, but it doesn’t matter; we never have a lot of clothes anyway. The boys have a room with bunk beds. They sleep two in a bed and on the couch or floor or wherever. Nese and Daddy have a bedroom, and there is a bathroom between Nese’s room and the girls’ room. The kitchen is pretty big with room enough for that big wood table where we eat. Dinner is the only main meal when we eat together. Two couches face each other in the living room. They are all worn out, but Nese has crocheted covers to go over the back and arms. These little covers are yellowed and turned up at the corners from wear. Let’s see: a coffee table, three lamps, an old piano and record player are the other things in the living room also—how can I forget—Daddy’s big old chair and footstool. Meanwhile back to now. See? Daydreamin’ again.

Lesie and Mazie are gone now, and things are quieting down for the evening. Our dinner tonight was what Nese called a New England dinner. Corned beef, cabbage, potatoes, carrots, green peppers, and onions all boiled together. Corn bread and tossed salad on the side. Desert tonight would be peanut butter and jelly sandwiches and milk. Everybody’s talkin’; nobody’s saying anything to each other at dinner. And me, I just kind of fill in the blanks. Sure do believe no one knows I’m here or not here. After dozin or so of reading some of my favorite comic books, I strolled a sleepy stroll down the hall to our bedroom.

It was dark—ever smelled dark? There it was, sneakin’ ’round, teasin’ me, bumpin’ up against me, easin’ all round with its sick, dark smell—a smell of scared. It was me all right, even though sometimes I didn’t feel like me. Yeah, it was me, sitting on the edge of my big iron bed, scared—scared again of that smelly ole dark. I’m scared in the room tonight. No, I mean really scared. I can feel my heart beating against my skin. It’s pitch-black in the bedroom—that is except for a stream of light coming from the street lamp outside the open