Creating an Opportunity

By Tonia Hill

What the Civil Rights Act of 1964 promised did not assist with the day-to-day struggles Mom faced. Hampered by unsuccessful marriages and relationships, and now nearing the age of forty and pregnant with her sixth child, Mom had to make a change. During that pregnancy Steve beat Mom once again, but his physical beating could not overcome the beating of Tonia's heart inside her body. Tonia's beating heart gave Mom the strength she needed to leave the volatile marriage once and for all.

 

With an optimistic lens, Creating an Opportunity challenges you to share in the colorful imagination of Tonia's coming of age as she learns to embrace the nuances of growing up as a latch key kid in the 1970s and 80s. You might find her unconventional experiences relatable, and you will be inwardly compelled to cheer her on as she creates her next opportunity.

 

Each chapter leaves you empowered to be your best self as you unobtrusively share in the misfortunes and successes of Tonia. She is quite optimistic and ready to make the best of a bad situation. To understand her deep emotions, Creating an Opportunity cleverly expands the reading experience with thought-provoking poems laced throughout the chapters.

 

Creating an Opportunity reflects the quick wit and humor Tonia relies upon for her journey through the promises of equality and the trials of transforming into adulthood in the inner city.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Zibrini, LLC
• Release date: Jan 12, 2024
• ISBN: 9798989770816

Book preview

MY NEIGHBORHOOD

When you know better, you do better.

– Maya Angelou

I grew up in what is now called South Los Angeles. Gramercy Place and Sixty-Seventh Street was the cornerstone of my humble beginnings. Most of who I am today, both good and bad, was orchestrated within this section of Los Angeles. My mom was a good person. She did her best raising my brother and me. Of course, raising children requires the help of extended family members; we all need a village. My aunt NeNe and uncle Morris were intricate parts of my village along with the church and a few significant others. My brother worked for the Department of Water and Power for over thirty years. He is an accomplished guitarist, married to his high school sweetheart, and they have three wonderful adult sons. I married my college sweetheart, and we have three adult children.

Although it has changed considerably, I loved the neighborhood I grew up in. It was notably comprised of liquor stores, churches, and places to shop and eat. With liquor stores on most corners, I could spell the word liquor by the time I was four years old.

A small mom-and-pop bakery was two blocks up the street from my house and they sold the best donuts. Their glazed donuts were only twenty-five cents. Whenever I had money, I would always stop and get a glazed donut. They were perfectly round and glistened. My mouth would salivate as they took it out of the case and put it in a bag. I never really wanted them to put my donut in a bag because I didn’t want to lose any of the delicious warm glaze. Upon purchasing the donut, the challenge I placed on myself was to make it home without eating it. That way I could enjoy it at home in my bedroom. My brain and taste buds battled against each other with conversations such as, Today I will make it home without one bite. After a few steps en route my taste buds would say, Well, let me have a little bite while walking home. What will it hurt?

One bite. Warm, savory, and sweet.

Let me lick the icing from the bag. That will suffice. Okay, I’m almost home. Let me eat half now and save the rest.

Two bites. Three bites. Now I was licking my fingers. Well, I have to do my chores when I get home, so I might as well eat the rest of it.

Four more bites and no crumbs.

Each and every time I purchased a donut, I tried my best to convince myself I could wait until I got home to eat it. Alas, I don’t ever recall being successful. A few bites and voilà, it was gone.

The grocery stores in my ’hood were Boys Market and ABC Supermarket. My friends and I believed ABC stood for All Black Children because only Black and Brown people shopped in this store. There was a privately owned store called Buddha Market on Slauson Boulevard and for some reason Mom did not shop there often, if ever. Maybe because the name of the store was Buddha, and I am sure Mom took issue with that. For holidays and special occasions Mom shopped at a meat market on Van Ness Avenue. An Asian man owned it, and he was known for the best quality meat around town, just a bit pricey.

For the best hamburgers, we would go to Quick N Split on Western. I found their chili cheeseburgers to be the best. I am not sure why it was called Quick N Split because the wait felt like forever for your food to be prepared. A little further up the street on the corner was Carnation’s Ice Cream with the best lemon ice cream ever. Eventually Fatburger, a fast food chain, came into the neighborhood. It did well, but it could not compete with Quick N Split, Rally’s Burgers on Crenshaw, the Golden Ox on Gage, and a few others.

Another favorite cuisine in the ’hood was fried chicken. If your mom did not make it, the next best place was Golden Bird. Everyone loved Golden Bird fried chicken. Everyone also knew there was an extremely long wait if you went there. Upon entering their establishment, you pulled a ticket and waited until your number was called. For some reason, it always took them a long time to fill an order correctly. Most times they would not follow in chronological order and this was most annoying. Occasionally arguments would erupt as to who was actually next in line to place their order. Another challenge were the employees of Golden Bird. They always seemed to have an attitude. It was as if they were bothered to have customers come in and purchase food. Whenever I went, I noticed an employee was either late or just did not show up for work. However, the aroma of the chicken frying was so intoxicating. The smell reminded you of the delish, juicy, hot, and crispy chicken you were purchasing. Once you walked out the door with chicken in hand, nothing else really mattered.

Another well-known business in my ’hood was Kream Krop Bakery. It was the baking mecca of Inglewood. I was honored to eventually work there the summer of my senior year in high school. They had the best donuts, cupcakes, German chocolate cakes, lemon cakes, and so much more. They made the prettiest birthday cakes with the best decorations; however, Kream Krop was famously known for their wedding cakes and their tasty buttercream icing. Sometimes when it was not so crowded with customers, I would disappear into the back of the store and learn how to make roses and other decorations for the cakes. What was surprising to me is that everyone working in the back was dressed in white clothing and were all Mexican. The workers mimicked little elves baking, icing, decorating, and then boxing every item. It was a well-oiled machine. I can’t recall the owner’s name, but she wore as much makeup as there was icing on the cakes. I remember her hair was jet licorice black, her face was powdered sugar white, she had pencil-drawn eyebrows, and rose petal red lips. All she needed was a flower on top and she actually looked like a cake.

Right next door to Kream Krop was Nix Check Cashing. Quite a few people in the ’hood banked with Nix. Why have a bank account when you could always rely on Nix to give you immediate cash for your check? Back then Nix required minimal identification and minimal paperwork to open an account. For some unknown reason my community was quite cautious about giving personal information to people, institutions, or banks. I am not sure why we were so suspicious, but I got the feeling we believed the government and the IRS would somehow get involved and try to take away the small amount of money we had.

Banking with Nix was simple. All you had to do was show a pay stub as your form of identification and you were good to go. They even gave you your own Nix Check Cashing card! Can you believe I still have mine? I can still hear the jingle playing on the radio: At Nix Check Cashing, you’re somebody special.

When I took my check to get it cashed, it felt as if Nix kept twenty percent of the money. Well not that much, but that’s what it felt like. After cashing several of my checks I thought, Tonia, why not go to the bank and set up an account so the next time you cash your check, you can receive all of your money? I worked my entire shift and I wanted my entire pay. However the convenience of Nix was so easy plus, they almost never had long waiting lines. This worked for me as I was young and always in a hurry with places to go and people to see.

One day, my aunt NeNe calculated how much money I had given Nix after looking at a few of my pay stubs. Once she showed me the amount of money I had given away over a two-month period, we immediately got in her car and drove to Bank of America to open my first account. And you know what? It was pretty easy to do and did not take as long as I thought. And guess what? The government did not contact me. Sometimes you need people to open your eyes enabling you to see clearly what you knew to be correct all along. This is wise counseling.

The way of fools seems right to them, but the wise listen to advice.

Proverbs 12:15 NIV

Yep, my ’hood was my community. My neighborhood was me.

INTRODUCING IKE AND TINA

A Drunkard’s Tale

My mother’s full name was Gertrude Bernice Williams. My father’s name was Steve Johnson. Mom was from Putnam, Alabama. Putnam was and still is quite rural and to date has found a way to remain unincorporated. As a young girl growing up, Mom had adventurous brown eyes and a captivating smile. She definitely walked, ran, and skipped to the beat of her own drum. She grew up with her dad and mom and was one of thirteen children—seven boys and six girls. Mom’s parents owned their land and raised chickens and pigs. I was told they even had a horse.

With a southern upbringing, Mom was raised to be respectful and for the most part she was, but in her youth, she had a wildness about her that increased as she grew. Once when she was pressing my hair, she told me about a boy named Tyler she dated when she was young. She and Tyler took Saturday walks together. They would enjoy lazy country strolls past the fields, the cows, and an infamous red bull. Mom and her boyfriend would steal away for great conversations and even a kiss or two. It seemed as if they really liked each other and things were going great until Mom found out Tyler began liking another girl. When she confronted Tyler about the other girl, he vehemently denied it.

Mom knew he was lying and devised a plan to get back at him. The next time they met for their weekly stroll, she brought along a small pocket knife and kept quiet during what was normally a talkative time between the two of them. During the walk Tyler asked Mom why she was so quiet, and she told him again she heard about him liking another girl. Tyler stammered and told her there was no such thing between him and anyone else and it was all a lie. Before he could finish his last stuttering word, Mom took the pocket knife, grabbed his hand, and slit his wrist. It was not a deep cut, but blood spewed against his chocolate skin everywhere. Tyler could not believe what Mom had done. He instinctively slapped his other hand on his wrist and ran. He was running so fast that dirt and small rocks flew at the heels of his feet. Mom smiled vindictively, wiped the blood off her knife, and lazily walked the rest of the way home.

I do not know much about my father’s upbringing. I don’t even know how many siblings he had, but I knew he came from a large family which was typical back then. He grew up in Natchez, Mississippi. During the early 1960s, people in Natchez sought to gain momentum with the Civil Rights movement. These same rights allowed a young man named James Meredith to be the first Black student admitted into the University of Mississippi. The Ku Klux Klan met this movement with strong resistance. What was supposed to be a positive progression of change for Black people turned into an outward pouring of deep-seated southern hate. As violence continued to rise, Black people in Natchez sought safety and refuge in other states. Steve and his sister Bernice (NeNe) did just that.

How Steve and Mom met has never been told to me. Mom never shared nor talked about her time with Steve, and when I asked her about it, her eyes would sometimes water and she would say, I don’t wanna talk about it. The memories were too painful. From what I heard, their relationship was volatile and seasoned with sex, abuse, and infidelity. Mom had experienced one too many failed relationships; however, with Steve, she did try to make an honest attempt with the marriage. In the beginning Steve may have had good intentions, but it was short lived due to two prominent problems: drinking and women. The two went hand in hand in no particular order.

Years before meeting Steve, Mom was married to a man whose last name was Gamble. They had four children, two boys and two girls, and lived in Alabama. Gamble was a violent man and one story in particular has remained with me. In his youth he was angry and at times transferred his anger on Mom. Instead of disciplining himself and using his anger to change his circumstances, he chose the cowardly act of being abusive. For example, one day he got upset with Mom for no specific reason and beat her senselessly. He hit her on the top of her head so hard she bled. Bloodied and incoherent, she successfully got away and made it to her parent’s home. Her brothers were enraged, but her father told his sons not to kill Gamble, but to find him and beat what they could out of him. He survived the beating and said we wanted to work on the marriage with Mom, but he was not capable. After many back-and-forth attempts, she divorced Gamble and moved to Chicago to live with her younger sister. She left three of the four children to be raised by her mom and one child to be raised by her sister. She wanted to be free from a failed, abusive marriage and to start anew. She worked hard and would send money back home to her mother to help take care of the children. She was young, discovering herself, and not ready to be a mother after what happened in the marriage.

Mom’s initial marriages did not go well and in her second marriage I was told by NeNe that after she gave birth to my brother, Mom drove to Alabama to give him to her mother to raise as well. Steve found out and when she returned he made her drive all the way back to Alabama to get him. This was not done because he loved him or even thought for one moment he was his biological son. Nope, he made her go back to be controlling. He believed working and raising a child would keep Mom busy so she wouldn’t find out about his extracurricular shenanigans.

As I mentioned earlier, Mom decided to hunker down and make a valiant effort to work on her marriage with Steve. She made intentional adjustments to her lifestyle for this to happen; she began going to church again, she would come straight home from work every day, and she would cook. Mom purposed in her heart to remain loyal to her marriage.

As intentional as she was, Steve was not husband material and never acknowledged Mom’s efforts. He had his own agenda and it did not include her. She and Steve would briefly get along at times, but far too often they did not. I can only imagine how defeating it must have felt as Mom tried to get things right with the wrong person yet again. What was the incentive to continue?

Steve and Mom continued to fight from can to can’t, go to sleep, get up, and then fight some more. I cannot explain my father’s actions, but I can say he had a distorted view of what love looked like. He seemed