Detra
Detra Thomas is a mother-of-six who came alone to New York City after escaping from a fundamentalist Christian cult in Arkansas. Her story is about faith, new beginnings, and the power of dreams. It is a riveting tale told in a beautiful, Southern twang.
1.
I wasn’t the first preacher’s wife to run away. There had been three more. One met a man on the internet. Another went into a life of drinking; she posted pictures on Facebook. And the third was Mary Anne. One Sunday morning Mary Anne was singing in the choir of her husband’s church. She walked down from the choir loft, through the middle aisle, out the back door, and nobody heard from her again. I made my own escape seven years ago. And in the Old Testament—seven years means completion. We were driving through the part of Arkansas where bluegrass runs through the hills like blood in the veins. It was dusky dark. And you could cut the tension with a knife. We’d just come from a visit with a ‘church mediator.’ I asked a few questions about our family finances, and the man accused me of ‘usurping my husband’s authority.’ My husband was a meek man. But I guess the meeting had given him courage, because on the way home he said: ‘Detra, you need to get back on my side.’ Right then something snapped. I hadn’t said a cuss word since the age of ten, when I got a whipping for saying ‘gosh.’ But I called my husband a ‘son of a bitch,’ right there in that burgundy suburban. He pulled over to the side of the road. He got right in my face with his finger, and said: ‘Satan! Don’t speak through my wife anymore!’ For the first time I didn’t cower. I didn’t grovel. I grabbed my purse, opened the door, and stepped out onto the side of Interstate 40. I knew I was crossing a line of no return. It was always clear what would happen to a woman who left the church. In our homeschooling textbook there was a picture. It shows a giant umbrella—and that umbrella is God. Beneath ‘God’ is a slightly smaller umbrella—'The Husband.’ Beneath those umbrellas are the wife and children. You can see the rain, and the rain is Satan. But it wasn’t raining the night I escaped. It was clear and dusky dark. I said: ‘Well God, I finally did it, and I wouldn’t mind a ride.’ Up in the distance I saw a car pulled off the side of the road. And the passenger door was open. I had no idea what was in there. It could have been a killer. But I knew whatever it was—had to be better than what I’d known.’
2.
When I was a little girl there were two records in our house that weren’t church music. One was a single of a kid named Jimmy singing ‘I saw Mommy kissing Santa Clause.’ And the other was Nat King Cole. We weren’t allowed to dance. So I’d put on Nat King Cole whenever I vacuumed, just so I could move to the music. That velvety voice would woo me out of the world in which I lived, and into a world of richness, and emotions, and magic. I memorized every song: ‘Ain’t She Sweet,’ ‘Unforgettable,’ ‘L-O-V-E.’ I’d sing along with the harmonies: ‘Love, is all that I can give to you. Love, was made for me and you.’ Boy, did I wish someone would sing to me like that. But nobody I knew sang love songs. We were Fundamental Baptists. Southern Baptists are the ones you see on the news for being so conservative, but Fundamental Baptists are much more conservative than that. We never even had a TV in our house. But we did have a library card. And that’s how I was introduced to the world of Christian Romance novels. These were tame. But I’d bring them home six at a time, because they were all I had. At least until 7th Grade, when I discovered Ms. Johnson kept harlequin romance novels on the back shelf of our classroom. These were the real thing. On the cover there would always be this young, innocent girl. And some worldly-wise guy would be staring right into her eyes. It was like: ‘Oh wow.’ I wanted someone to look at me like that. But I never went on dates. In Baptist College I was voted ‘most naive’ three years in a row. At night I’d sit outside our dorm and sing lullabies. Boys would fill up the benches around me. All my life men have been drawn to me—I will say that. Because what I offer is rich. I met my husband in the school ensemble, and he’d always find a way to sit next to me. He wasn’t exactly a character from a romance novel, but he had a ventriloquist puppet named Clovis. Clovis was black. And to be honest I fell in love with Clovis before my husband. My husband was meek. It was Clovis that told me I was beautiful. It was Clovis that called me on the phone. And one evening when we were eating supper with my family, it was Clovis that got down on one knee.
3.
A month before we got married I was sitting with my husband in a gravel lot behind the old Hidden Valley Catfish Restaurant. He said: ‘Detra, you’re a strong woman. Do you plan on being a submissive wife?’ I told him that I certainly would try my best. And he said: ‘Well if I can’t conquer you, God will.’ For our honeymoon we went to Eureka Springs and saw a live performance of The Passion of The Christ. The day we got home I moved my one box of things into his apartment. While he was at work I began to decorate. I laid out some of our wedding gifts. There wasn’t much, but I made it beautiful. And I couldn’t wait until he got home to see it. But he wasn’t smiling when he walked in the door. He said: ‘You touched my things.’ He made me put everything back. For the next 34 years of my life, I never felt like I had my own space. My only escape was music. I was the pianist for my husband’s church: at weddings I’d play my joy, at funerals I’d play my pain. It was the one thing that allowed my soul to stretch. Each of our seven children were musical, so we formed a band called Heart for Home and did it full time as a travelling ministry. Over an eight-year period we travelled across sixteen states in a fifteen-passenger van. Everyone played a different instrument. And I must say, we were good at what we did. We’d open every service with three bluegrass songs from the Heavenly Highways Hymnal. Then my husband would bring out the puppets, to loosen people up. After the puppets we moved onto the sermon. My husband preached the sermon. But not before I sang the special. I always sang the special. It was the one time I felt celebrated for being me. We came off the road after our oldest son Lucas joined the marines, and back in Arkansas I fell into a depression. I couldn’t lift a finger without a man’s permission. When I finally met with a therapist, she asked me the crucial question. She said: ‘Would you leave your husband if he was beating you? Because what he’s doing is worse than beating you.’ I’m ashamed to admit that I stayed for another eighteen months. Until that dusky dark evening, when I stepped out onto Interstate 40. And God pulled over to pick me up.
4.
She was a female doctor from the Choctaw Indian Nation. And I could tell that she’d rescued before. She stepped out of the car, slid an arm around me, and found a hand. My husband tried to stop her. But she slammed the door and told her daughter to drive. They dropped me off at the nearest Holiday Inn Express, and the first thing I did was call my sons Garrison and Lucas. Lucas had been the first of my children to leave home. He’d been the first to start asking questions. So when I told him I’d finally left his father, he understood. He said: ‘Stay right there. I’m coming to pick you up.’ He drove me fourteen hours back to his apartment in New York City. He was bringing me there to start a new life. But I felt like I was going there to die. My other children were sending me texts. They were angry. Two of them asked me to not come home. They felt like I’d abandoned God, and abandoned our family. I couldn’t blame them. It’s exactly what I’d taught them all these years. Lucas and his wife Margaret did their best to make me feel welcome. One night we had dessert on top of the Standard Hotel just as the sun was going down, and we got to watch all the lights come on in Manhattan. New York was like this machine. And I didn’t know about this machine. Was it friendly, or an enemy? I did notice pretty quickly that there wasn’t any judgement. Near our apartment there was a plaza, with a place to sit. Complete strangers would sit down next to me, and they’d want to know my story. When I explained that I had run away from a pastor husband, I would always pause—and I’d wait for the judgment. But it never came. Instead people would give me a high five. I made so many new friends. Some of the women dressed a little funny, but everyone was pleasant. At dinnertime I would tell Lucas about all the people I was meeting in the plaza, and he’d say: ‘Mama, you’ve been in New York for a week. And your network is bigger than mine.’ I could tell he was a little jealous. Finally he decided to come see for himself. I went around the plaza and introduced him to my entire network. As we were leaving to go home, he said: ‘Mama, all of your friends are druggies and prostitutes.’
5.
My entire life I’ve been good at following rules. But in New York I didn’t know any of the rules. One time a man touched me on the subway, and I froze. Ever since I was a child—I’ve had a fear of defending myself. When I got home, I asked Lucas: ‘What’s the rule for when someone touches you on the subway?’ And he said: ‘Tell them to get the fuck away. That’s the rule.’ Lucas taught me how to live in a world that’s gritty and real. We’d always been close, but in New York he became like my guardian. I’d only planned to live with him for a few weeks, until a better option came along. But there were no rooms I could afford to rent. So the weeks turned into months. I went back to Arkansas one last time— to get my stuff. I had nowhere to put any of it. But I couldn’t stand the thought of my husband having my stuff. I chose a day he was on vacation. My son Garrison agreed to help me, and we rented a U-Haul. I was careful to only get my things. I didn’t take anything that ran the house. Nothing from the kitchen, except my rooster collection. I didn’t touch his recliner. But the 14-foot sectional was mine. I bought that with the money I made working at Dress Barn. I got my three pictures of curved bridges, and my Nancy Drew mysteries, and my Oriental rug. I only took my stuff. That was my stuff. But I’ll admit, the timing was bad. My youngest daughter had planned a graduation party for the next day, at the house. And she was so angry with me. Lucas and Garrison have always supported me, but it was my final nail in the coffin with the other kids. They asked me to meet in the Target parking lot. It was like a scene from an Old Western. There was a drizzling rain. They stood across from me in a semi-circle. Each one stepped forward and gave me a kiss on the cheek, then returned to the circle. The youngest delivered a speech they’d prepared. I don’t remember the whole thing, but it basically said: ‘We don’t want you around.’ Before I went back to New York, I dropped all my stuff at the Total Mini-Storage. As the metal door came down on the unit, I said a little prayer: ‘God, help me find a home of my own one day. And let it be big enough to fit a 14-foot sectional.
6.
In Brooklyn there was a church with a 300-voice world famous choir. It was mesmerizing to watch. In my old church you weren’t even allowed to raise your hands. But this choir moved, like a wind was blowing through it. I’d stand up front every Sunday and move right along with it. One week they announced that the choir would be holding auditions. I knew I could carry a tune, so I signed up for a slot. The auditions were in the office of the pastor’s wife. We made small talk before we began. She had family in Arkansas, so she asked me why I left. I told her my story, and then I sang ‘Amazing Grace.’ I had a heavy cold that day, but Amazing Grace has this way of coming through. And when I finished, she said: ‘Detra, you passed.’ I could feel my soul begin to stretch. Those words were like an invitation to me-- to finally worship freely. But before I could officially join the choir, the pastor’s wife told me I needed to meet with a ‘church counselor.’ It ended up being her son. He asked how I could stand before the throne of God, having run away from a pastor husband. Then he asked for my husband’s phone number. I think I made it downstairs before I started sobbing. At the time I was applying for a job at Starbucks, and they needed me to work Sundays. I’d only missed church twice growing up: once when I had the measles, and once when I had the mumps. But I said: ‘God, use this job to let me know if you want me to keep going to church.’ On the night I was hired Lucas and Margaret cooked me a celebratory dinner. They brought out a bottle of red wine and poured me a glass. It wasn’t the first time they’d offered me wine, but it was the first time I had something to celebrate. I wasn’t sure if I could do it. I knew it would be crossing a line in the sand. Lucas saw me staring down at my glass, and said: ‘Don’t worry Mom, you don’t have to do it.’ But I wanted to do it. The name of the wine was Cannonball. On the label it showed a child. She was flying through the air, with her knees pulled to her chest, about to leap into something entirely new. I took my first sip, and oh my Goodness. It was the worst thing I’d ever tasted. So I took another. And another.
7.
Every Sunday after my shift at Starbucks I’d eat at a place called Hill Country BBQ. It was the closest thing to Arkansas that I’d found in New York. They had sweet tea. And moist brisket. And live music every weekend. The band that performed on Sunday was called The Three Gentlemen. It was three guys with low slung guitars, singing cover songs about getting drunk and star-crossed lovers: Waylon Jennings, Willie Nelson—that sort of thing. I’d sit at the bar with my glass of sweet tea, and just listen. After a few months I’d gone so much that the bartenders had named a drink after me, and I’d memorized the lyrics to every song The Three Gentlemen sang. During one performance the lead singer noticed me mouthing along, and he decided to have a little fun. He said: ‘Detra, come up here and sing a song with us.’ I said: ‘Don’t I have to audition?’ He shook his head ‘no,’ so I stepped up on stage and took hold of the mic. It was a Sunday afternoon, so there wasn’t much of a crowd. Mostly young mothers and fathers, with babies in strollers. But all the waiters and waitresses had gotten to know me by that time. One of them shouted downstairs: ‘Detra is fixing to sing!’, and everyone came running up. The song was ‘Make You Feel My Love’ by Adele. And I must have done alright. Because when I finished the whole staff was clapping wildly. Even The Three Gentlemen seemed impressed. I think it was probably a small thing for them-- letting me sing. But for them to have said: ‘We want to hear your voice. Come just as you are.’ It was a big thing for me. From that day on, it became our little tradition. Every Sunday they’d invite me on stage to sing a song with them. These were saloon songs. Songs about alcohol, like ‘Tennessee Whiskey.’ And ‘Make it Through The Night’-- that song is about sex. One time Lucas came along to hear me sing, and I was nervous. Because he’d only ever heard me sing religious songs. After the show he came up to me, and he was shaking his head. He said: ‘I’m disappointed in you, Mama.’ And my heart began to sink. Then he said: ‘You’re holding back. I’ve seen you do much better than that. Let go of all the rules, and own that song.
8.
I thought about what Lucas had said: ‘Let go of all the rules.’ And the very next week I started writing a one-woman show. I called it ‘One Woman’s Journey To Love,’ and it was nothing but love songs, with little pieces of my story in between. I managed to put together a five-piece band. Two of The Three Gentlemen joined me, and Lucas agreed to play the bass. I could only afford to give the musicians $200 each. But at our rehearsal I served a huge crockpot of chicken enchilada soup, and one dozen of my signature peanut butter cookies. We started running through my list of songs, but I had the hardest time giving direction. Because I’d never told a man what to do before. Our drummer said: ‘Detra, this is your band. You have to give us direction.’ So I gave it a try. I started making little suggestions, like: ‘A bit slower here.’ Or: ‘Let’s try this chord instead.’ And the band would play just how I liked it. These five men did something nobody else had ever done for me before. They didn’t hold me down, they carried me. If I ever missed my entrance, they’d circle back, pick me up, and drop me back in again. My favorite part was when they talked about me like I wasn’t there. Sometimes when I did a song perfectly, one of them would say: ‘Just look at her, ya’ll. Ain’t she amazing?’ We held the performance on a Tuesday night at Hill Country. There were 35 or 40 people there. Most of them were my Starbucks customers: the regional manager came, my district manager came. Margaret got there early and did my make-up. I wore something from my old life. It was a black-and-white V-neck top, with shiny dots all over it. I’d gotten it with my employee discount at Dress Barn, and it looked beautiful under the stage lights. When it came time for the show, I told the guys: ‘Just give me one note on the keyboard and we’re going to start.’ Because that’s how I was dropped into New York. The lights came up. And for the first time in my life, I stepped out on a stage meant for me: my band, my show, my songs. I took a deep breath, the band gave me my one note, and I released my voice into New York City. The first song I sang was ‘L-O-V-E,’ by Nat King Cole. And I owned it.
9.
It was magic that night. I didn’t miss any lines, or any beats. I sang seventeen of my favorite love songs: ‘Somewhere Over The Rainbow,’ Unforgettable,’ ‘Love Look What You’ve Done to Me.’ Toward the end of the show I sang ‘Dance With Me,’ by Orleans. I told the audience that for eight years I’d begged my husband to waltz with me, but he never would. He kept saying that I was too short. When I started to sing, the whole audience got up and danced with me. In that moment I could feel my chains breaking. It might have been the first time in my life I felt completely free. On the night of my performance, I’d been living in New York for just over a year. And a year is a long time to have someone living in your house. Lucas never made me feel like a burden, but I felt like a burden. For months I’d been praying to God: ‘Help me find a way out of here.’ And he answered that prayer. Just not in the way I was expecting. One morning Lucas told me that we needed to talk. He said that Margaret had been offered a job out-of-state, and she was going to take it. He invited me to come with them. I couldn’t bare the thought of starting all over again, in a new place. But most of all I didn’t want to be a burden. So I told him: ‘Thank you. I’m alive because of you, but I’m going to stay.’ When Lucas moved away, I lost the last bubble of protection between me and New York City. Garrison begged me to come live with him in Arkansas. He had an extra room in his apartment. But he was living in the town where I was born, and I just couldn’t do it. I told him: ‘If it gets bad, I’ll come live with you.’ And he said: ‘Mama, a homeless shelter is bad.’ I told him: ‘Not bad enough.’ I checked into a private shelter in Chinatown. There were thirty women in one room with fifteen bunk beds. On the night I was admitted, they made me have my picture taken for a photo ID card. I had to sign a piece of paper-- to prove that I was homeless. It was one of the hardest things I’ve ever had to do. When I put my signature on that line, I felt like I was sealing my doom.
10.
My first night in the shelter I found a folding chair and sat with my back against the wall. I needed to feel something solid against my back. I didn’t know if there was going to be a bottom that I could hit, and bounce back up. Or if it was just going to be darkness and I’d never come out again. I was scared. But I was also angry. I felt like my identity had been stolen. From the time I was two years old, until the night I entered the shelter, somebody else had been in control of my life. Each day for ‘check-in’ the women would line up against a brick wall. But I never wanted to be in that line, so I would walk around the neighborhood until the last minute. One day I noticed that a boxing club had opened a few blocks down. They were offering trial lessons for $40, so I decided to go see what it was all about. There weren’t many athletic clothes in the shelter’s clothing closet. So I came to my lesson wearing faded blue men’s swimming trunks, an oversized T-shirt, and my black Starbucks work shoes. The owner’s name was Martin. And one thing about Martin, is that he’s always saying ‘kid.’ He took one look at me when I walked in the door, and said: ‘What’s your greatest fear kid?’ I told him I had a fear of defending myself. Because as a child I’d been abused by men in our church, over and over. And if I raised my arms to defend myself-- they abused me worse. I asked Martin if we could maybe start with a speed bag. But he told me they didn’t have a speed bag. He threw me a towel, and said: ‘Get in the ring, kid. I’m about to change your life.’ He had me doing exercises named after animals: crab stuff, and bear stuff, and duck things. I thought I was going to die. The whole time he was telling jokes. They were bad jokes, but he kept me so scrambled that I forgot about my fear. That first day he taught me how to do the ‘jab, jab, cross.’ Two jabs with the left, and a cross with the right. And I enjoyed it. I enjoyed the hitting. When we finished Martin asked me when I was coming back. I told him I couldn’t, because I didn’t have any money. He said it didn’t matter. He called out to the person running the desk, and said: ‘Hey! Put this kid on my list!’
11.
I’d always head straight to the gym after my shift at Starbucks. Martin trained me for free the entire time I was in the shelter. He told me that he was going to turn me into a fighter. He was hard on me. He said I had more problems than a math book. And if I ever complained, he’d call me a drama queen. One afternoon I came in upset, because I’d just gotten an email from my husband-- saying I was outside the will of God. It had really shaken me. But when I told Martin what happened, all he said was: ‘Fuck that shit.’ He told me to get in the ring. And as he wrapped my hands, he said: ‘We’re going to do things a little different today. Every time you throw a cross, you’re going to say: ‘Fuck that shit.’ I laughed. I said: ‘Oh, no. I don’t talk like that.’ But Martin wasn’t laughing. He said: ‘You’ll talk like that today.’ I looked around the gym, and it was just me and him. So I gave it a try. Jab with the left. Jab with the left. Cross with the right, and: ‘Fuck that shit.’ Martin was wearing the pads on his hands; and he’s saying: ‘Louder. kid. Louder.’ He said: ‘Nobody fucks with you, nobody.’ Which wasn’t true of course, because I’d been fucked with my entire life. But I tried it again, this time even louder: ‘Fuck that shit.’ Louder. ‘Fuck! That! Shit!’ We did it for thirty minutes. With each punch, I got louder and louder until I was screaming. At first those words were just about my husband, and the email he had sent. But as I kept hitting the pads, those words became something else. It became my way of giving voice to everything that was done to me in the name of God. The psychological abuse in the marriage. The sexual abuse as a child. All the guilt I’d been made to feel, all the shame. Fuck. That. Shit. It was wrong. I’ve known it was wrong my whole life. But I never defended myself. Or if I tried, it was: ‘Get back in your place.’ But now I was doing something. I was fighting back. At the end of the day when I walked out the door, I felt relieved of so much pain. Martin called me over to the desk. He said: ‘Listen, kid. From now on, every time someone tries to mess with you, or makes you feel less than, you gotta say it: ‘Fuck that shit.’
12.
I was still in the shelter at Christmastime, so Garrison flew in from Arkansas to be with me. We ate a Christmas meal together. We went and looked at the windows on 5th Avenue. And right before he left to go home, Garrison gave me a small box, with a bracelet inside. On it there was a single charm—with the skyline of New York City. He told me: ‘This is your New Life Bracelet. And I’m going to get you a charm for every new accomplishment.’ From that day on—whenever things got hard, I’d twirl that charm between my fingers, and trust that things would get better. Every morning the shelter guard would wake me up at 3 AM, so I could catch the train to Brooklyn. I worked the opening shift at Starbucks. But I never minded. Loving on people has always been my favorite thing to do. I knew all my customers’ names. I’d memorized their orders. My favorite thing was when I got to write their name on the cup. I’d always draw a special little curve underneath-- just to let them know they were special. One of my favorite customers was a man named Eric. He sometimes came in with his husband. And he was quick to grin, so whenever I had a break we would get to chatting. I had no idea what he did for work. But I told him the same thing that I told all my favorite customers: ‘If you know anybody who’s looking for a receptionist, keep me in mind.’ It turns out that Eric was the CEO of a consulting company, and he asked me to put together a resume. All I’d ever done was church work. So there wasn’t much to put on there, but in the end it didn’t matter. The interviewer told me that the office printer wasn’t working. He said: ‘Let’s not worry about your resume. Tell me your story instead.’ When I finished he asked if he could give me a hug. And they ended up creating a position just for me: HR Assistant. My starting pay was $50,000 a year, with benefits. A few days after I got hired, Eric took me out to coffee. He told me: ‘I know you think I got you this job—but I didn’t pull any strings. I handed them your resume, and all I said was: I have an unorthodox candidate.’
13.
The first thing I did when I got a real paycheck was hire a real estate broker. I told him that I only had one requirement. He said: ‘Not in New York. Not at your price point.’ But I told him: ‘I’m a praying woman.’ Sure enough he called the very next day. He said: ‘You’re not going to believe this. But I found a place in Harlem.’ We went to see it that very night. It was a one-bedroom, right around the corner from a cigar shop. I walked straight into the living room, took out my tape measure, and measured the walls. 14 feet exactly, just big enough for my sectional. And I knew I was home. Lucas was so proud of me. And Garrison bought me a second charm for my bracelet. It was a little house, with ‘Home Sweet Home’ written on it. But my other children still weren’t speaking to me. After I moved in, I went on Facebook and printed out their photos. I put them all over the apartment. Because I wanted to feel like they were still part of my life. Their birthdays were always tough for me. So were the holidays. I’d never lived alone before, so I was dreading my first Christmas in the new apartment. I made sure to plan out my entire day: I was going to read all morning, cook some salmon for lunch, then crawl into bed at 4 PM to watch the Christmas Prince on Netflix. The plan was going great. When I finished my reading, I was so proud of myself. I thought: ‘I’m almost through Christmas Day.’ Then I looked at the clock and it was only 10:15 in the morning. And I lost it. I just lost it. I went through my whole apartment, and took down all the pictures of my children. I stuffed them in a drawer. I couldn’t face them. I felt like a horrible mother, and a hypocrite. For all those years I’d gone from church to church, teaching about marriage and motherhood. I told everyone: ‘Put Jesus first, others second, and yourself last.’ But that isn’t what I’d done. I moved to New York and put myself first. And now I had five kids that wouldn’t talk to me. The old feelings of guilt and shame started washing over me. I let myself go for a few minutes, but then I pulled myself back up. Jab with the left. Jab with the left. Cross with the right, and fuck that shit.
14.
Lucas volunteered to bring up all my stuff from the storage unit in Arkansas. He was supposed to arrive on a Monday, so the following Sunday I scheduled a final performance of ‘One Woman’s Journey To Love.’ I wanted it to be a night to remember: my show, my songs, in my place, with my stuff. Unfortunately Lucas was delayed, and by the time he arrived we barely had time to get everything unloaded. On the night of the performance, the bathtub had stuff stacked up to the shower. Twenty-five people attended. The band set up in the kitchen, and I performed while standing in the hallway. There were some new songs in the mix: ‘My Way,’ and ‘Wild Horses,’ and ‘Raindrops Keep Falling on My Head.’ I sang a hymn for the first time. I’d never sang a hymn in my show before, because I hadn’t wanted to put people off. But it’s what I believe. So I sang ‘Lord I Need Thee Every Hour.’ At the end I gave a little monologue; I told the audience: ‘We are dealt so much in life that’s wrong. And we do so much that we wish we hadn’t. But you’re so much more than those things. You are beautiful, and you are needed in the world.’ Then I closed with ‘You Are So Beautiful,’ by Joe Cocker. Margaret stayed behind to drink a glass of wine after everyone left. We settled into the 14-foot sectional. And I started to look around, at all my stuff. Beneath my feet was the giant Oriental Rug my kids had given me one Christmas— they’d split the cost seven ways. There was my collection of antique Nancy Drew mysteries. There were my three pictures of curved bridges. The hurricane lamp, with a cardinal, that my daughter had given me. Because she knows how much I love little lights. My rooster plates, my rooster platter, the rooster lamp from Cracker Barrel. My upholstered coffee table. The drapes I’d sewn from my favorite fabric at Hobby Lobby. I’d waited weeks for it to go on sale. I never thought I could do a good job because we were so poor. But looking around at all this stuff, I realized something: it was beautiful. When it all came together, it was beautiful. Maybe I hadn’t been given many choices in life. But I always knew what beauty was. And even in the ugly, I created beauty.
15.
I used to smoke sweet tips, because I thought they were feminine. But I’ve learned I like heavier cigars. I’ve learned a lot about myself these past few years. I was put in charge of hiring for our entire company. I’ve produced my own play. My bracelet is so full of charms that Garrison had to buy me another. And that one’s half-way full too. I downloaded a dating app for seniors, called Our Time. I said: ‘Lord, you designed the body. I’m losing my ever-loving mind, so I hope you understand.’ I just wanted to see what was out there. And let me tell you, there’s a lot out there. I’ve tried all the flavors: Bangladesh, Egyptian, Hispanic, African. The whole smorgasbord. I’ve dated about seventy men. And I’ve had four marriage proposals, because what I bring to the table is rich. But right now I’m on a little bit of a break from romance. I’m taking time with myself. But that’s a romance too. It’s a love that’s lacy. It’s light filtering through the leaves. It’s not harsh sun, but it’s oh-so-warm. For 55 years I never liked myself much. But now when I hear people describe me— I like that woman. I’ve worked hard on her. I might be a little quirky. Truth be told I’ve sat down and pondered if I’m batshit crazy. But I decided no, I just hover over crazy, then I flit away. Like a hummingbird. Back in Arkansas I’d hang out feeders for the hummingbirds. I’d watch em’ all day. So I don’t mind being hummingbird crazy. I can be colorful, and dance, and sing, and make mistakes. I’m not hurting anybody. I’m not taking anybody else’s oxygen. I’ve got my own space. In the evening I like to set my chair out on the sidewalk, turn on my Bluetooth speaker, light my cigar. I never just stick the fire to it. I go around all the edges, and let it breathe a little. Until there’s no dead spots. Until I’ve pulled all the life into the it. Then I sit back, take a deep breath, and watch Harlem walk by. I smoke slow. It’ll take me two hours to finish. And I’ve made myself a playlist that lasts just that long: Michael Jackson, Whitney Houston, Bruno Mars. Everything has an order. And when that last song starts playing, it’s time to go home. Al Greene. Put a Little Love In Your Heart.
