Secrets

The first arrow attacked my psyche in 1977 during a fundraiser at Mr. Silks 3rd Base, a Black establishment owned by my Uncle Gus, my father’s brother. This place had been my home away from home, as my father also worked there. My brain wasn’t in as bad a shape on that day as the future would find it, as the powder habit hadn’t landed. Oh, but the genetic code of addiction was implanted as if it were my birthright. How could it not, since I’d grown up spending my childhood weekends at a neighborhood speakeasy that masqueraded as my Nana’s home, and making the rounds as a kid with Daddy to the bars in the hood and hanging out at Silks.

Looking back, who knows might have unfolded had I been further along the continuum of this progressive disease. This stranger caught my eye as I walked in her direction from across the room, winding my way through the crowd of people telling lies and making promises. My recollection of that afternoon has been altered substantially, probably a direct result of the variety of substances ingested in the following 10 years as well as the series of lies that followed. Most vivid is the memory of the arrow’s strike, the stingers of a swarm of bees dancing like hundreds of sewing machine needles across my heart. I couldn’t hear her exact words…yet I surely saw confirmation of the woman’s verbal revelation of our sibling relationship all over her face; the Lacy forehead and her beautiful red clay complexion, not quite a mirror image of myself, but most definitely related. I felt her very real hurt cloaked in anger, fortified by alcohol, combined with grateful receipt of this karmic opportunity for confrontation with the other daughter—me. I opened my  mouth to say What? No words would come. I walked out into the sunshine, lost and uncertain of everything.

I never spoke of this encounter to the people I trusted most in the world. It was a  secret that I wasn’t sure how to carry. I went to Uncle Gus, hoping he would be honest with me. After all, he was the honest to a fault cool uncle! I was never so wrong. He offered his trademark snort, rolled his eyes, and said  “Aw Shawn, don’t believe that shit … she just needed something to say. Duck that shit and that bitch!” Snort snort. Knowing in my deepest self that this was a lie, I went to my cousin sister, April, Gus’ youngest child, who gave a different version, confirming that she had heard many conversations about the existence of this daughter. Whew! The path was so convoluted and intricate. I was 25 years old. I still remembered all of the years when I prayed for a sibling. I always wanted to be anything but an only child. I staggered under the weight of this  information. Truth? Lies? If true, this was a monumental betrayal. How could my father have kept this secret? How could my mother not tell me? Oh! Wait a minute. Did she even know? How could he have done this to the woman who is his daughter—my sister—surely there has always been room enough and love enough for more? Why and how does she know and I didn’t?

The plan took formation but shape shifted at every turn. I would talk to him, confront him, make him tell me the truth. But what if Mommy doesn’t know? Daddy will be so out of pocket

that I knew; he would never be able to hide that his world had shifted. If she doesn’t know, I sure as hell wasn’t going to be the one to shatter her world view. What was I to do about this new person? I was so confused and hurt. My mind reeled around the domino effect on my family that this revelation would have. I stuffed it; placed it somewhere inside where it burrowed into the deepest recesses of my heart, hanging like a life preserver that could only save me if I followed the manufacturer’s instructions and used it properly.

Four years carrying this news, an albatross, nowhere to lay it. Instead, I shared it with liquor and weed. Then Daddy got very sick, and I spiraled, adding cocaine. I was a Daddy’s girl and I was losing my dad. He died from cancer three months after his diagnosis in 1981. And my downward spiral hurdled out of control for the next several years.

The funeral was in a few days. I picked up my cousin Wookie who was arriving by train She was the oldest of my first cousins and had been raised by our grandmother after her mother passed away. I idolized her. I trusted her. Not quite sure if I asked the question. I had waited for this moment; maybe I would get some answers filled with truth. As we travelled through familiar West Philly, the air was thick and stifling, typical for a July evening. I was snatching glances at her from my peripheral vision, playing the conversation out in my head. I must have inquired, and with no hesitation she proffered the news blast: I had two additional siblings—one, a talented, beautiful man whom I heard on the radio all the time; he sang with the Delfonics, a Philly based R & B music group; the other, a sister from another mother, no further information available. So I had the information from someone I trusted but who had also withheld this information from me for my entire life. And now my father was dead. Gone was any opportunity to have a conversation with him about this.

My vision blurred; my head was spinning. I was having an out of body experience as I pressed my foot on the gas pedal, speeding blindly up Walnut Street, visualizing dashing up the steps to my parents’ bedroom, where the ghost of my father hovered over us all. Mom was in their bed, covers pulled around her in the 80-degree July heat. I looked at her and asked, “Do I have brothers and sisters?” Her eyes implored me as she cried out,  “Leave well enough alone. Why do you need to bring this up now?” She slung this at me, clearly not understanding that for me, her answer threw me into a world of increased confusion and lies. Now, my mother had compounded the hurt and anger at the deceit and secrets. Was I not worthy enough to know? My anger bubbled up like the froth from a witch’s cauldron, black, caustic and deadly. I remembered the day so many years before when I’d made the conscious decision to protect my mom from the truth of my father. And now I’d learned that she, too, was the secret keeper—to protect whom, her or me? But why, they were all older than me, born before my parents met. How could she be hurt by this? And if I couldn’t trust my mom to speak truth to me, who could I trust?

It was never spoken of again. Mom died 31 years later, and while I have been able to cobble together various pieces of a puzzle to reveal the what, I have no inkling of the why. The existence of  my father’s children might have been a gift to me. The universe has presented moments that have allowed a glimpse or two, ordering my steps in the direction of some remote connection, yet there is still so much that I wonder about. Delores was the sister who confronted me that day in 1977. She later reached out to me in 1995 through cousin April and asked if I would be ok if she were to approach me at Uncle Gus’ funeral. And so, in the church aisle, in the midst of such intense grief, we came together and we hugged, and she gave me her phone number. I never called it. I was afraid I didn’t know if she was still the angry Black woman from Silks. I had my daughter to think of now. Did she want something? Would she possibly hurt my child? I put the number away. I wanted to call, but I could and would protect my child at all costs. So I was prepared for battle if it became necessary. I still didn’t call. And then I lost the number. She died. I was sorry. I still am.

At my brother Randy’s funeral in 2010, flanked by my cousins Craig and Windy, I stared at his children, grown and successful, and longed for a conversation. I wondered about the prudence of approaching. I didn’t. Instead, I wrote notes on a business card for each of his sons and his niece and prayed that they could connect.

No one reached out afterwards. I was saddened yet understood so well. I engaged in some Facebook stalking for a while, and in 2011 I summoned the courage to send friend requests to the two  nephews and their cousin. Miraculously they responded, and in the era of social media’s superficial and peripheral connections, we built a tenuous bond. In 2015, Randy, Jr. reached out wanting some information. I became hopeful—not sure for what, but excited. During that contact, he requested pictures and he relayed stories that were now like pieces of a puzzle falling into place for him and me. He remembered his dad always feeling “different,” because his ‘dad’ treated him differently than his siblings. He never pursued it. He wanted to protect his mom’s feelings. That felt familiar.

It would be two years later, in 2017, before we would speak again. Randy connected saying he was considering a DNA test to know for sure. He said he would get back to me.

Three years later, in March, 2020 this text popped up:  “Hey is this still your number? I think I’m ready to take the test.” I expressed my gratitude for him reaching out again and shared info about ancestry.com, since that was where I had landed and had been researching for years. July, 2020 brought the message, “Well it’s confirmed our DNA is a MATCH! Let’s chat soon.” We remain in sporadic contact.

My last sibling is Ursula. In 2016, her daughter, Rachel, reached out for her own family connection. We connected through Facebook but had no conversations about our family, The avoidance dance was mutual. We would meet in person, unexpectedly, attending our own medical appointments, promising to connect other than on Facebook. We didn’t. Then Ursula became ill with cancer. I reached out to Rachel, and we exchanged numbers; we shared messages and sentiments, prayers and support. Having cared for my mom as she battled bladder cancer, I worked hard to lift Rachel as she was navigating supporting, loving, and grieving for an aging, ailing parent. Still no conversations about the secret—the unspoken undercurrent of which we were both aware. Ursula died in December 2019.

Rachel and I finally talked briefly about the secret and she’s been able to fill in some blanks. There is very sporadic contact; I suspect she is still navigating her own grief and the puzzle pieces of her own.

Telling a lie requires a decision—a resolve to live actively and consistently with an intentional deception. Lies and omissions require hypervigilance, standing ready to carry on the lie at all costs. Secrets are also heavy; 31 years passed from that mention of these siblings to my mother. There was no other conversation. It never occurred to me  o broach this with my mother again. I subconsciously honored the secrets. But they keep reverberating. Their import is never really over.

The best thing that came of all this is my vow to never have any secrets from my woman child. She is 32; I have kept my promise.