Things I Should Have Told My Daughter Read online

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  Things I Should Have Told My Daughter

  “An enjoyable, nonstop read. Familiar and profound. Pearl’s memories feel like my own. Her lies, lessons and love affairs wash over me like water, sage and lavender. She makes me feel at home in her life.”

  —Jasmine Guy

  “[Things I Should Have Told My Daughter] shows an intelligent, resilient, remarkable woman bearing witness to the sometimes insane world of politics, to friendships, love, and American culture. Her reflections often made me laugh out loud. Cleage’s journals are spellbinding!”

  —Deborah Santana

  “Pearl’s courageous, candid recollections of the ups and downs of her life remind us of our human nature, at times, to doubt and judge ourselves too harshly. Her wit and authenticity allows us to look at our own lives with a bit of levity, compassion and freedom.”

  —Valerie Jackson

  “The first time that my then six-year-old son saw Coretta having Sunday dinner at Pascals, he ran up and climbed into her lap. He felt that he knew her and that she belonged to him. She was shocked, pleased and so kind. I felt that same warmth when reading this book. I felt that I knew Pearl (was she my roommate or my best friend?) and that her narrative belonged to me and the other young women (now of a certain age) who grew up during this period of awakening. Now we get to share our lives with our daughters.”

  —Collette Hopkins

  “Cleage gives a history lesson you didn’t get in school.”

  —Deborah Burton-Johnson, founder of Turning Pages Book Club

  “In Things I Should Have Told My Daughter, Pearl Cleage writes with the candor, clarity, and integrity that we have come to count on in her work.”

  —Randall K. Burkett

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  I’ve been heading in this direction for years. I light a candle.

  I light a joint. I turn down the music and begin to write.

  —PEARL CLEAGE, 11/30/80

  The Question

  I told my daughter over lunch at our favorite hamburger joint that upon my death, which, as far as I knew, was not imminent, I wanted to leave the diaries and journals I’ve been keeping since I was eleven years old to my granddaughter, Chloe, who was three at the time. My daughter didn’t even pause to consider the idea.

  “Absolutely not,” she said calmly, reaching for the ketchup. “She doesn’t need to know all that.”

  “All what?” I said, surprised by her reaction.

  “All that,” she said, raising her eyebrows as if I knew perfectly well what all that was, so she wasn’t required to provide any specifics.

  “You’ve never even read my journals!”

  I knew this to be true since she had politely declined my offer to provide her with unlimited access to them when I thought she might be curious somewhere around her fifteenth birthday. I didn’t want her to have to sneak and read them the way I did when I discovered a volume of my own mother’s diary, carefully concealed in the back of her closet. That discovery made me understand for the first time that my mother had a rich interior life, not to mention a sex life, that didn’t include me at all. Far from being hurt by this, it deepened my affection and respect for my mother, who had now been revealed to me as a mysterious, passionate, creative woman engaged in a valiant struggle to balance love and freedom.

  My daughter didn’t see it that way. She saw the journals as uncensored, unedited slices of my life, meant for my eyes only. Any attempt to include others in such an intimate experience, after the fact and through no fault of their own, struck my child as self-indulgent, insensitive and unnecessary.

  “Aren’t you even curious?” I said.

  “Curious about what?” my daughter said.

  “About my life,” I said. “About what happened.”

  “Mom,” she said gently but firmly, “I know what happened. I was there, remember?”

  After that it seemed wiser to move on to more neutral topics, but I couldn’t get her reaction out of my mind. If part of any sane woman’s life is figuring out how to spot the lies, remember the lessons and engage passionately in the love affairs, aren’t my journals among the most primary of primary sources? And even though my daughter is telling me they are probably nothing more than a toxic brew of rage, whining, scandalous behavior and unreliable memories, I am not convinced.

  After all, she only has one half of the equation to consider. Yes, she was there, but my daughter was not privy to the relentless soul searching, merciless self-observation and rigorous self-analysis that allowed me to survive my early womanhood and emerge with my health and sanity still relatively intact. Those crucial conversations only took place in the pages of my journals, where clarity came slowly, over years, and the resulting behavioral changes occurred gradually enough that my daughter could not be expected to draw a straight line from one state to the other. She only saw the Sturm und Drang of my mad flight toward financial independence, sexual liberation, creative fulfillment and free womanhood, not necessarily in that order. Looking back, I wonder if it’s possible that the things I didn’t tell her are as necessary as the things I did.

  “Do us all a favor,” she says gently, dropping me off at home later. “Burn them up and be done with it.”

  I am shocked by her suggestion. If I was going to burn them, I could have done that every year as part of my usual New Year’s rituals: give thanks for what has just finished and what is about to begin; make your resolutions; drink champagne with the beloved; burn your journals. No way. There is a reason why I saved them all these years, carting them from my baby girl bedroom, to my college dorm, to a series of apartments and finally home. There is a reason they have survived and even if I’m not exactly sure what that reason is, I probably ought to think about it a little longer before doing anything as irrevocable as burning. I decide there is only one way to figure out who’s right. I’ll read them all and then decide.

  I am surprised to realize how many there are. Stacked in cardboard boxes; stashed in my great grandmother’s Alabama steamer trunk; spilling over the sides of an overflowing and badly tattered basket, demanding organization and attention. They have mutely rebuked me many times as another year passes and I add a few new volumes to their number without going back to be sure that 1967 isn’t crowding 1996 and that those pages I took out from December of 1982 were correctly replaced and not stuck in April of 1984 by mistake. Clearly, the first challenge is narrowing my search for mystery and meaning to a manageable number of notebooks. I need an organizing principle, but based on what? Dates? Times? Places? Decades?

  The idea of a couple of decades appeals to me. Twenty years is not enough time to be overwhelming, but it is more than enough to be a representative sample. As best I can recall, the two decades between 1970 and 1990 were pretty action-packed as far as those lies, lessons and love affairs I was talking about earlier. I know for a fact that I left college, moved to Atlanta, got married, finished college, got a job, had a baby, quit a job, wrote a book, helped elect a mayor, quit another job, got divorced, lived by my wits, became an artist, had a play produced, had my heart broken, mended it, found my honor, found my smile, realized I was a lot stronger than I had thought I was. A lot wilder, too, but all that came much farther up the road. This particular twenty-year journey begins in Atlanta on January 9, 1970 . . .

  The Journa
ls: 1970–79

  * * *

  JANUARY 9, 1970

  It seems fitting somehow that the first entry into this journal should deal with the increasing repression and retaliation that is coming down in this country—white to black. Donald Stone is going to jail today with two other brothers. They had a demonstration in front of the Atlanta Draft Board a couple of years ago, did twenty three dollars’ worth of damage to the door frame, and now he, Stone, has to serve three years. Leah and Stanley Wise gave a party for him last night. It was crowded and it was tense at first because everybody knew what was going on, but nobody was talking about it. His wife, Flora, was smiling and talking to people but when she stood by herself, her face looked stretched. Stone was drinking. He danced once with Lonetta and laughed. Stanley brushed past him and didn’t even look around. Like he was there, but gone, too—already gone.

  When he spoke, Stone said: “I had alternatives. I had alternatives open to me. I could have done other things. But going to jail is in keeping with my political reality and I figure black people are going to have to deal with jail and so I am going to serve.” His wife was not around when I heard him speaking. I guess she didn’t want to hear him talking like that. She didn’t cry, though. She was just kind of tight. I smiled at her and she smiled, but she doesn’t really know me and who wants to talk to somebody they don’t know at a moment like that? So, I didn’t approach her. A lot of SNCC people were there. Some of us went swimming at the park before we went over to Leah’s and then on the way back, we sang songs. Mostly Charles, Stanley and Porter sang. Me and Michael didn’t know all the songs. Freedom songs. Movement songs. SNCC songs. The one I like best is “One More Time.” Bernice Reagon sings it, too. My mind is opening now. I want to write things! I feel more into what is happening. Whatever is going to come down in this country is not about looking sharp. It is not about abstaining from things or really getting into a deep thing about “the people.” Whatever comes down and how we deal with it is only important at all in terms of how we learn to deal honestly with each other. Those people tonight were trying to deal not only with the abstractions of a political reality, but with the very real feelings they have for somebody they love; with how to show him what they feel for him, even though they aren’t going where he’s going—yet. At twelve noon we are going to watch him turn himself in at the post office downtown. Liberation is a constant struggle. And this is a new year.

  JANUARY 12, 1970

  I think that a black poet can do one of two things for his people:

  1. Reflect the beauty of their black life; whole, broken and mending.

  2. Lead them in a righteous direction by showing them the path and what lies ahead in liberation and victory.

  If you call yourself a black poet and you ain’t doin’ that, you ain’t bein’ truthful and you ain’t bein’ fair and in general, you ain’t doin’ nothin’ for yr people/yr self/the struggle/the nation/the community. In short, you ain’t doin’ shit.

  So there.

  MARCH 10, 1970

  Last night we saw The Battle of Algiers, and afterward, we were talking and wondering if it was going to get like that here. Then this morning, they say on the news that two SNCC people were blown to bits outside of the town in Maryland where Rap Brown is on trial as of yesterday. They were Che, from here, and Ralph Featherstone, who I think was working out of D.C. now. Porter looks like he is going to cry. I know Stanley is about to cry. Everybody around here is trying to deal with it and what it means. The press is already saying some shit about how they were carrying explosives to make trouble in the town and that they blew themselves up. That is obviously a goddamn lie. Would they ignite a bomb on themselves? Would they carry nitroglycerin? What do they think we are? Folks here are going to have a memorial service. Stanley is trying to get it together. I feel helpless and sick. What can we do? What should we do? We are so unready to retaliate to anything. We talk so damn much and ain’t five guns among the whole damn group. What are we going to do? People keep talking about being ready “when the shit comes down.” It is already coming down! Every day. All the time. God. I feel horrible and that is an ego trip to even be worrying about how I feel. Che’s real name was William Payne. They can’t find his parents to notify them and they are already saying his name on TV. No consideration for human things. Why are you surprised? I can’t write any more now. It doesn’t seem like it is worth shit anyway.

  MARCH 11, 1970

  (Presented at Sister’s Chapel, Spelman College, Atlanta, Georgia)

  THIS STATEMENT HAS BEEN PREPARED BY PERSONS FROM DRUM AND SPEAR BOOKSTORE WHERE RALPH WAS MANAGER, AND THE AFRO-AMERICAN RESOURCE CENTER

  Ralph Featherstone and William Payne were killed by a bomb placed in the car they were driving. These murders took place on a highway leading out of Bel Air, Maryland. We understand the reason for Ralph and William being in Bel Air was specifically to arrange for the entry of H. Rap Brown into that city. Rap was due to stand trial in Bel Air for alleged charges of arson and inciting to riot. We know from past experience the danger of assassination of black leaders is ever present. Ralph and William were very concerned and took upon themselves the heavy responsibility of arranging a safe entry into the city of Bel Air, Maryland, for Rap.

  Borrowing a car on the evening of March 9, Ralph and William drove to Bel Air to survey the situation. At 11:50 p.m. that evening while on the highway leaving Bel Air the car exploded into a thousand pieces killing Ralph and William instantly. William’s body was mutilated beyond recognition. We believe that that bomb was intended for H. Rap Brown.

  It is significant to note that the car that was driven and destroyed had been used over the past five years throughout the black belt of the South. The car was well known to State and Federal authorities. Ralph and William’s presence in Bel Air was almost certainly known. A bomb was planted at some point during the night under the right seat of the car.

  Ralph Featherstone, manager of the Drum and Spear Bookstore before coming to Washington, D.C., had worked in some of the most dangerous areas in the South: Neshoba County in Mississippi where the three murders took place in 1964; Lowndes and Wilcox counties in Alabama and the city of McComb in Southwest Mississippi. During this period of intense political activity a close and lasting friendship developed between him and H. Rap Brown. In his work in the South, Ralph has seen many black people killed. A number of those killed were personal friends of his. It is important to remember that H. Rap Brown is still missing. We do not know whether he is dead or alive.

  MARCH 12, 1970

  This morning, a note from the revolutionary front: Three establishment buildings were bombed successfully in New York last night. The Mobile Oil Building, the General Telephone Building and IBM. They said that a letter sent to the papers claimed that a group called the Militant Revolutionary Nine did it. Black or white? Who knows? It is a blow against the shit that is going down and that is a positive move. The memorial service for Featherstone and Che was really sad. None of the people who spoke blew their cool and cried. The tone of the things they said was that we should not be sitting around crying but that we should be uniting and working together. Stanley said it should be very clear that this is not like the Mississippi killings where three nuts come up and do something. He said it was an organized government thing and should be called that. He was swollen in the eyes and looked like the effort to talk without breaking down was intense. Porter said “death is no stranger to me,” and he looked sad, too. They said at the meeting last night at Porter’s house, Stanley cried for a long time and then got himself together. Lynn Brown thinks that Rap was in the car and is dead. They have not heard from him at all and everybody thinks he is either captured or killed. The car was not going to the courthouse so how could they be going to bomb it anyway? The news and all are acting like it had nothing to do with the trial. The ugly judge said it was not related. Yesterday morning, somebody bombed the goddamn courthouse anyway. They arrested a white woman behind it. Also in New
York the apartment of some SDS folks blew up. They said they were “playing with explosives.” Weathermen. It sounds like part of the same shit to me. The Chicago trial, and now SDS, and now Featherstone, and now New York. This country must look pretty damn awful to the outside world. I am trying not to be hysterical. Times are getting worse. How do you get to the point where you are like the people in The Battle of Algiers, and can face all the shit and not break down? I am not there yet and I know it. We are both afraid. For us, for friends, for families, for what is happening here. I wonder what it’s going to be like in five years. Maybe I should have a kid now while we are still out of the camps.

  To: Staff

  From: Wife and Family of Ralph Featherstone

  Date: March 12, 1970

  Re: Funeral

  The body of Brother Featherstone will lie in state at the Stewart Funeral Home, 4001 Benning Road, N.E., Washington, D.C. The body will lie in state 6 p.m. Thursday and Friday.

  Memorial Services will be held Saturday at 1:00 p.m. at the Stewart Funeral Home Chapel prior to cremation.

  Donations may be sent to:

  Center for Black Education

  1431 Fairmont St.

  Washington, D.C.

  MARCH 12, 1970

  It seems that I have been operating on the edge of hysteria since this first began. I am overreacting to everything. I feel like I cannot respond exuberantly to any emotional thing or I will slip off and become hysterical. This afternoon, we went out to eat lunch and coming back, I started laughing and then I started crying and it was awful because I couldn’t stop it. I don’t know what’s happening. Dorie just contacted a very old woman who knew Featherstone to tell her about the memorial service and Dorie was saying, “Yes, ma’am,” and, “No, ma’am,” and it sounded so nice. She wouldn’t have ever said it to anybody here, so it was really nice and funny to hear her talking like that to an old lady. I teased her about it a little and she just grinned and said “that is my training.” The other day we were looking through some materials and we found an old SNCC agenda for some important meeting or another. It was all about bad things happening and what they were going to do about it, but at the bottom, somebody had written an order for lunch: “chicken and potatoes and some sweet potato pie,” it said. It was written in pencil and it was just weird to see it and realize that the folks doing all that dangerous Movement work in places like Neshoba and Philadelphia, Mississippi, were still having to eat and sleep and order lunch and go to the bathroom.