Fragile Strength: Notes on the Life of No One in Particular

By Phyllis Ann

When Phyllis Ann, as a first-year student at Washington and Jefferson College, became a member of a faculty committee, we knew a forceful young woman had joined us. Dedicated to identifying needs, stimulating solutions, and righting wrongs, she went about teaching her elders how it really was. From her no

• Language: English
• Publisher: URLink Print & Media, LLC
• Release date: Apr 4, 2023
• ISBN: 9781684864102

Book preview

Fragile

Strength

Notes on the Life of No One in Particular

PHYLLIS ANN

Fragile Strength

Copyright © 2023 by Phyllis Ann. All rights reserved.

No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system or transmitted in any way by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopy, recording or otherwise without the prior permission of the author except as provided by USA copyright law.

The opinions expressed by the author are not necessarily those of URLink Print and Media.

All Scripture quoted and/or paraphrased taken from the NRSV translation of the Holy Bible.

Many names and locations changed to protect the privacy of those I met on my journey in life.

1603 Capitol Ave., Suite 310 Cheyenne, Wyoming USA 82001

1-888-980-6523 | [e-mail]

URLink Print and Media is committed to excellence in the publishing industry.

Book design copyright © 2023 by URLink Print and Media. All rights reserved.

Published in the United States of America

Library of Congress Control Number: 2023905249

ISBN 978-1-68486-601-4 (Paperback)

ISBN 978-1-68486-410-2 (Digital)

16.03.23

DEDICATION

I dedicate this to my son who I hope can read this before my death.

ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

I owe a lot to all those who taught me lessons of faith. Many of them have passed. So, I wish to especially thank those who have read and critiqued my work. Without these people pushing me and encouraging me, I could not have finished this task. When you are no one in particular, you realize that your story is not more tantalizing than anyone who has a story to tell. Even so, you must lay it out to allow yourself growth from all the craziness. The person who has stuck with me through all my many drafts is Karen Thomas of Washington, PA.

In addition to her, I appreciated the efforts of Dr. Thurman Booker of Norristown, PA, Dr. William Keen of Alexandria, VA, Dr. Stuart Miller of Washington, PA, Dr. Richard Easton of McMurray, PA and Jessica Pollas of Easton, PA. All, as readers, have taken the time to read the text and make it richer by their suggestions.

Table of Contents

Preface

Though You Stumble and Fall

A Man Called Bo

Stolen Soul

We Were Family

You Can Take It with You

No Option for Failure

Mi Ti Amo Fullamente

Traversing Hell

I Cross My Heart and Hope to Die

Takes a Licking but Keeps on Ticking

I’ve Come This Far by Faith

Preface

People call me tough. People call me strong. I call myself fragile. At one point, I thought of myself as a shy little girl until, at forty-five, I revisited pictures taken when I was five. There I stood with my right hand on my hip and my left perched against the door frame. I had an air of confidence and a smile of joy. The confidence and image of self-worth reflected in that picture evaporated over the years as sexual and emotional abuse took its toll. However, no matter how deeply I fell into the abyss of hopelessness, I surfaced to conquer both my fears and obstacles.

My problem was that no one told me that everyone suffered from something. People either suffer something of their own making or from something dumped upon them. In my case, it is hard for me to tell which type of circumstances produced the consequences of my life decisions and which were out of my control. There are things I laid at the Cross and others that I carry as yoke around my neck or a thorn in my side.

I am attracted to opinion books, personality and psychological tests. They allow me a window on how others see me. I think of myself as smart, quick-witted, verbose, compassionate, tolerant, assertive and manipulative. Most of my friends will agree with that and most of my enemies, not. I have been told, they view any introversion and judgmental tendencies as discomforting. I must agree when I become self-righteous I am insufferable. In addition, I can be cutting and rude when insulted and/or patronized. I tend to speak my mind and appreciate not brown nosing. Consequently, I hate cocktail chatter. Some colleagues think I am too spontaneous in my thoughts and actions. They fail to realize that I over think things and am, therefore, rarely lacking a quick response to a seemingly complex challenge. My passion is often taken as anger. We all know about the mad black woman stereotype. Only my close friends acknowledge that I remain silent when angry, choosing not to inflame the conflict. In marital spats, my spouses did not understand my passionate advance, quiet retreat, followed by a change in mood and topic. I hate conflict and will do almost anything to avoid it. Ambiguity is another form of emotional and political conflict to me.

I have a complex personality and this book reflects such by its non-linear structure. I lead a compartmentalized life. In the past, I longed for the compartments to merge but as I aged the crevices just became larger. I learned to be appropriate to the place, people and situation in which I find myself. I grew up poor in a rich environment, I graduated to a professionally richer one, and I lived in a classy foreign one. I travel with many protocols which I occasionally misapply across social economic classes. I have learned to live on and in the margins. I am a confidant if you express confidentiality. I am a motivator, encourager and supporter. I process a pendant for making visions of others a reality even though I cannot realize my own dreams. I am loyal to a fault and I repress feelings of hurt when unappreciated. Because, I am prone to an occasional pity party, I am able to prevent my repressed feelings becoming bitterness and despair. My life will lead some to believe that I have cause to be distrusting of everyone. In my youth, I was too trusting. That trust led to many heartbreaks and relational difficulties. At a certain point, even now, I am not naïve but gullible. I liked to be liked especially in school and church. But, I can only beg for affirmation for short periods. I am a renegade in many respects.

I like to dress in classic fashion when I can afford it. I learned in Europe it is much better to have quality rather than quantity; and much cheaper too. I love to dance having soaked up everything my mother and physical education taught me. I only dabble in recreational reading, now preferring movies and the internet. A book has to grab my attention in the first chapter for me to dedicate time to it. My years of education were excruciating for that reason. I like to cook but living alone promulgates more restaurant reservations than homemade delights. I long departed from a basic soul food diet in an attempt to elongate my life. I now doubt if that was necessary or true. God does have a say in our longevity.

I share all this with you now to allow you to see my development from innocence to jaded maturity. I was raped. Rape steals the soul. I do not know any positive outcome of it. Combine rape with pregnancy and there is no acceptable resolution to the dilemma it creates. If you abort the child there is guilt and scars. If you place/give the child up for adoption, again guilt. And, if you decide to keep the child, what amount of emotional suffering by mother and child is enough. I speak in generalities; but, I only speak from my own dilemmas.

How given the ambiguity, stigma and shame in my life did I escape suicide? There are three tenets that precluded me from committing suicide. One, self-preservation is the first law of nature. Two, my use of memory helped me stabilized when my life was disrupted. Many doctors exclaimed how fortunate I am to be able to remember my experiences in a psychotic trance. And, three, I believe in the supernatural which means I have faith in God.

I wrote this book for myself and at risk youth who may not see any undergirding in their lives. I am not saying you can follow my path but know there is a path that can be made. So, it is not a question of how I felt at any juncture but what I did. Although, I want you to feel the joy I felt as the world opened for me. I want you to do rather than just be. I hate to put it in these terms; but, I grew up black, female, poor and bipolar. Surely, you can do as well or better.

I was once told that intelligence does not trump mental illness: nothing does, but education inevitably helps. It is ironic that my strength came from my family. My strength also came from my rape. But, more than that my strength no matter how fragile comes from God, for, all things are possible through God who strengthens me. (Phil. 4:12)

For those who believe in fate and/or destiny, I am hoping that my story will reflect God’s active participation in my life. It is he that pulled me up again and again while I strived to live a balanced life.

Though You Stumble and Fall

R-i-n-g. R-i-n-g. R-i-n-g. I groggily look at the clock radio. It is 5 am. No one calls me at this hour unless it is my family calling from America. I hesitate. My family rarely calls me. Apprehensive, I pick up the receiver. Hello, this is Phyllis

Diane is on the line. Phyllisann, I am sorry to call you so late. Or, is it early?

Diane, it is 5 am. I told you there is a seven hour difference in the time. What is so important?

I don’t know how to tell you this.

You woke me so just tell me. Is it Larry? I had a dream earlier that he was crying. Is he okay?

It’s not about Larry.

Well, let it out…

Phyllisann, your mother died today.

Silence.

Phyllisann, did you hear me?

Silence. My mind is reeling….

How?

She had a heart attack.

Silence.

She’s dead? How can that be? I just saw her over Christmas.

What can I say? She went quickly. You have to come home.

When is the funeral?

That’s up to you. You need to come home.

In shock, I say, Of course, of course, Enzio is out of town. Can it wait until he comes home?

No, you must come home now. Get the next plane out. Nothing can happen until you get here.

"Of course, of course, I will catch the next flight out. I will call with all the details.

Fine, call me at Mom’s as soon as you know anything. I am sorry, Phyllisann. Bye.

Bye.

The conversation was incomprehensible. I had just seen my mother when we were home for Christmas. Enzio and I shared our belated first anniversary with her. Now she was dead? I quickly called Enzio who had left on a business trip to London the day before. After a few rings, he answered and immediately said;

Phyllis, I know it’s you. What’s wrong? You never call when I am traveling. Why……?

Mommy died, Enzio. My mother is dead.

Silence.

Enzio slowly chimes, What? Your mother’s dead? Pause. Oh, I am so sorry baby. Pause. You have to go home immediately.

Are you coming?

"I don’t know. I don’t know if I can get away. I have appointments set up for the next three days.

You have to come. I can’t do this alone. Please meet me in Philly?

I’ll see what I can do. I have faith you can handle it. I will call Uncle Tito and my mother to help you get a ticket. They will take care of you. Don’t be frightened. You can do this. I know you can.

Quietly, Feeling lost, I begin to weep.

I whispered, That’s the problem. I don’t want to handle it, I want my mommy.

My mother died on January 29, 1980. She was three months shy of her forty-fifth birthday. She had a heart attack trying to get her 350 lb. body through a door of a small room. The doorway was so narrow that the fire department removed her body through one of the bedroom windows. Mommy, having been claustrophobic I am told, had terror on her face when she died. I was twenty-eight and living in Milan, Italy; so, after the funeral, I scattered her ashes in the Italian Alps. It was the largest and most picturesque expanse I knew at the time. She was a rare person so I placed her up where the air is also rare. I thought to reside in Italy forever and visit the summit during skiing trips but the best laid plans go astray. The last trip I made to the Alps was when I laid her to rest in February, 1982.

My mother was kind, groovy and smart. It was easier to hurt her than make her angry. She was known as someone with a big heart; so big, she would give you the coat off her back. That was a weakness; but, it was also a positive trait. My mother was a breath of light airy breeze. Her voice sounded like birds singing; while, her laughter enticed. Alma, which I never called her, was the most profound, lasting and welcomed influence in my life. Standing 5’2" in her stocking feet, high yellow with porcelain facial features; Mommy was the little engine that did in a family of could, would or should. Her beauty was celebrated through the tristate area. It was not unusual for me, even in adulthood, to be surprised by someone who knew Mommy positively and be able to tell me a poignant story. Mommy was the middle daughter of triplets. Her baby sister Anna died in childbirth, she and her older sister, Delores, grew up thinking of themselves as identical twins. Who, by the way, I could always tell apart. So could most people who took time to look and listen.

None of the women in my family finished high school. Prior to rigid child labor laws in Pennsylvania, Mommy dropped out of school in the eighth grade to go to work. My grandmother, while touting education, was unsuccessful in getting her female offspring to thrive in the milieu of school. Times were different for her and my mother’s generations. To be poor and black often meant giving up the very thing that could help pull you out of the mire of poverty—an education. Many times the women had the choice to drop out or starve. Sometimes it was a question of marriage, independence, and/or pregnancy. In my mother’s case, it was work. However, my mother soon ran into my dad, seven years her senior and the owner of a small dry cleaners. They were married, the business failed; and, they moved to New York City when she was sixteen. I arrived shortly after her seventeenth birthday and was second to a brother who was stillborn, a year earlier. The marriage did not last. I was one year old when mommy left my father, Tommy. I did call him that.

My mom with me in tow, returned home to Pennsylvania but was not welcomed by my grandmother who had given her an ultimatum of being disowned if she married. So, my mother and I stayed a year with a couple she knew until my grandmother relented. Even with all the problems she encountered mommy loved my dad and never spoke of him harshly. I never really knew why she came back home but the rest of the women seemed to relish decrying him. I remember my mommy putting a stop to it as soon as she thought I was old enough to be hurt by their talk. She would chide even her mother saying He is my husband. Phyllisann will make up her own mind about him. I believe my grandmother only kept silent not to anger my mother; after all, Mommy was the only one consistently contributing to the household purse.

Mommy was fearless in certain things. She would tell me, If a man hits you, take a frying pan to him before leaving; for, if he hits you once, he will certainly do it again. If you meet a man in a bar, leave him there for he will surely be no good. She sounded experienced and wise as mothers do. There were other ways she showed her confidence and courage. During my early childhood, my mother worked at the local State Hospital as a mental health aide. She worked in one of the most dangerous female buildings in the hospital for seven years until, at 25, she became a patient at the hospital. Even though the patients were tough, she took me to work more than once. There, I witnessed how compassionate but stern my mother could be. It was her handling of the patients that has helped me feel comfortable with the abnormal being normal. I exhibited no anxiety or fear in the presence of the patients. Subsequently, it also helped me be joyous and cheerful for the small blessings of picnics on the hospital lawn when we went to her permitted monthly visits.

There are many things I will never know of my mother as she died so young. The frequent disruptions caused by her committals, and later my schooling, prevented moments of mature sharing that parent and child develop later in life. Withstanding the interruptions, I did know Mommy well enough to know she was open, accessible, and vulnerable. I could talk to and ask anything of her. It quickly became clear to me her goal was to equip me to survive my family and the world. When she was around, I was constantly with her. That helped fill in some gaps.

My surrogate father, Bo, also liked to take me in tow; especially, when I was not with my mother, doing chores or completing homework. He was especially attentive when my mother was in the hospital. He even moved across the street from my grandmother’s house. He told me it was to keep an eye on me. Consequently, except for school and church, I spent little time with other children my own age.

Mommy hated lying especially about the family secrets. Secrets anyone who knew the family in our small community was too polite to mention. There seemed to be reciprocity between hypocrites. Nevertheless, by the time I was twelve; Mommy had divulged every skeleton in the family’s common closet with instructions not to tell anyone. With all the comradery between us, there were still definite parental boundaries established that I made a point to maintain. Back then, a whipping was apropos for naughty children. Consequently, when my mother told me not to repeat the secrets, I zipped my lips and never said who was whose father. I kept the truths that my three cousins, Paul, Lisa, and Diane, being raised as my mother’s siblings were actually the children of a older sister. And, my grandmother had been married twice after being raped by a white man from whence my Uncle Bill was spawn.

I grew up knowing exactly who I and the people around me were. My mother made clear that respect for my elders applied only to my real elders. My cousins, although senior in age, did not warrant the same deference. However, hypocrisy ruled; so, Paul, Diane and Lisa were known as uncle and aunts also. I, occasionally, dropped their titles and called them by their first names once the cat was out the bag. My mother had fought the secrets all her life; although, she too had her own. She told me about my stillborn brother. I discovered after her death that she had not shared the fact even with her mother. Her revelation of her love-hate relationship with Aunt Delores was shared later in dibbles. My mother’s hatred of lying and secrets arose from her difficulty in dealing with ambiguity. I developed the same aversion. Mommy said a secret was only a secret if only one person knew it. So, confidentiality was not the same as hypocrisy I fought all my life to be open, honest and accessible. That became a burden later in life as a few of my own secrets were born.

Even as a child, I realized that my mother was not a saint. Occasionally, I was present when she was taking one of her hangover remedies. Two raw eggs with tabasco sauce was her favorite. No matter how late she’d been out the night before, she was seldom late for work and more than once won attendance awards. She was excruciatingly frank and honest. If you wanted to know the truth, they said to ask Alma. My grandmother would interrogate her sometimes when she stayed out overnight. She appeared to never lie about whom she’d been with or what she had done the proceeding night. Many times my grandmother would be so mad that she made hollow threats of throwing her out and keeping me. Mommy’s words cut like a butter knife if you got her angry. That side of her I rarely saw. But, a few times, she let grandmother and Bo have it with both barrels. Mostly she took my grandmother to task over her church ladies and their self -righteous gossip. I never understood her relationship with Bo who seemed to adore her. She would date other men but Bo was always there. When she wanted to hurt him, she would start talking of my dad.

My mother lacked patience. When she was manic, she especially lacked patience even with me. One time she even threw piss and shit in my face in her rush to get to the bathroom. It scared and hurt my ego but I was the blame. It was my fault for not following her rules governing use of the telephone. The upstairs house phone was in the room she shared with my grandmother which was adjacent to the one bathroom in the house. My mother was a stickler for the protocol in all things. The bathroom was for grooming and other bodily needs, not for talking on the phone. I was seven and chatty. I routinely maneuvered the phone by pulling it by its long cord into the bathroom. However, the cord was not long enough to have the phone reach to the toilet. So, I improvised. Squatting on my younger cousin’s potty, I multitasked. I was in that position when my mother, one day coming in from work, ran in the house hollering; Clear the bathroom. I am coming through. She had done that before; but, she always waited for me to get out of her way then scold me concerning my disobedience.

Well, this time, she came barreling up the steps and straight through the bathroom door. Unfortunately, I did not get off both the potty and the phone quickly enough. I cried, I’m hurrying, Mommy. But, instead of waiting as was customary, Mommy shoved me out of the room. And, as I turned to look at her, she threw the potty out the door. It hit me on the forehead. I was confused and felt shamed as the contents of the pot ran down my face mixed with my tears of fright. Innately, I knew something was wrong with Mommy. Later, when I told her what she had done and how afraid I felt, she was still stable enough to gather me to her chest. She gave me an apology but chided me for tying up the bathroom by using the phone. The next day Mommy disappeared and Bo explained that my grandmother had sent Mommy to the hospital for having a nervous breakdown. I never shared the shaming incident with anyone until now, not even with my surrogate father, Bo.

Again, looking at the positive, Mommy was the most cosmopolitan in the family. Some might say the most jaded. She had lived and traveled to New York, the Southeast and various other areas earlier than any other black woman in her circle. Once again, until she was incapacitated, I often heard; Ask Alma if you want to know what’s there. She was a natural leader, an effective event coordinator and a match maker. Many times she introduced a discarded suitor to a relative or friend. The match-making was more common following the onset of her illness. She said she would never marry or have children again and she did not. The only constant man in her life was Bo. My mother was engaging, precise in her verbal exchanges, and adept in giving commands. Unfortunately, the latter two traits could cut deep when she was irritable or did not like someone. From the time I was six, I knew she had a keen mathematical grasp on the world. She seemed to always spend big but stretch her paycheck to cover all our bills. Her current boyfriend made sure of that; and, what his donation did not cover, Bo did. It was common for courters to contribute to a woman’s upkeep; as, it was recognized that a man was to provide for the woman once the relationship became serious. Unlike today, where women have more opportunity, back then dating a man with a good job was a necessity. She had many male friends over time, but, she did not fabricate uncles. All, but one, of the men she dated were nice; And, when I started dating, she impressed upon me; Only one man at a time, Phyllis; only one man at a time. She had matured in an age without birth control.

Mommy was a party girl who was organized enough to become a professional event planner. She gave various parties at home; and, even, Halloween became an event. She took me trick or treating to her friends in both the black and white communities. The latter handled out the good stuff like freshly made donuts and small toys. She out did my fifth birthday party at home by throwing me a surprise party for my first grade elementary school class during the school day when I was six. This was way before it became the norm for parents to entertain one’s classmates during school hours. I remember my classmates shouting happy birthday as I beamed from ear to ear. Since she had lost my stillborn brother, my birthday was a special day with the promise and granting of my heart’s desire. Sometimes that desire had to be confined to one major gift and some special fun event or activity. Every five years, until age fifteen, the special fun activity was a birthday party at home. The only exception happened when I was six.

For my mother, my birthday was more precious to her than Christmas. However,