Ms. Brown didn’t disclose our destination, but it was evident that we were on our way to meet a significant literary figure, as we opted for a gypsy cab instead of taking the subway. Although it should have been someone familiar, it turned out to be someone I hadn’t expected.
We arrived at a flawlessly beautiful brownstone in Harlem. The interior was pristine, adorned with paintings of women wearing headscarves, a stunning cherry-colored oriental rug, and an elegant, gleaming dining-room table. Ms. Brown guided me towards a woman seated on the couch. I recognized her immediately, even with the plastic tube extending from her nostrils to an oxygen tank. Maya Angelou exuded grace with her straight posture and sparkling rose-pink eyeshadow.
As we conversed, my mind recollected random snippets of information from her memoir, I Know Why the Caged Bird Sings. She had a fondness for canned pineapples and her brother, Bailey. She vividly described the sensation she experienced upon hearing someone read Charles Dickens aloud—a voice that “slid in and curved down through and over the words.” And like me, she referred to her grandmother as “Momma.”
“What’s your name?” she inquired.
“Jenisha.”
“Your last name?” she promptly asked.
“Watts.”
Maya Angelou now knew my name.
The gathering was in honor of the poet Eugene B. Redmond, and prominent literary figures such as Amiri Baraka, James Baldwin’s family, and Nikki Giovanni were in attendance. It felt as if Nikki Giovanni had written her poem “Nikki Rosa” specifically for me, as she conveyed, “Though you’re poor, it isn’t poverty that concerns you.”
By this time, I had become accustomed to mingling with literary types at networking events. However, there was always an inherent pressure to prove myself based on my career, education, or family background. But on this extraordinary night, it was different. There was no need for validation. It was assumed that everyone present was significant, for who else would be invited to Maya Angelou’s brownstone? In my imagination, I crafted stories about the potential role I played in their lives. Maybe I was a talented young poet, a close family friend of Maya’s, or even her granddaughter. It would have been delightful to have Maya Angelou as my grandmother—along with Toni Morrison and James Baldwin as my grandparents.
As a child, I frequently engaged in this kind of daydreaming, pondering who I could have become had my family been different. How my life might have been altered had my mother been a professor, artist, or writer.
Unfortunately, I did not grow up in a Harlem brownstone. I did not have an accomplished mother or any creative individuals in my family. Maya Angelou was not my grandmother.
I was Jenisha from Kentucky, raised in a crack house.
The Charlotte Court housing project in Lexington, Kentucky consisted of identical apartment complexes with barren front yards and patches of grass. Despite Lexington being predominantly white in an overwhelmingly white state, the West End was a predominantly Black neighborhood. Many residents experienced poverty. I owned a bubblegum-pink ten-speed, which I would ride to the corner store to join older girls in stealing Lemonheads and Now and Laters. During summer, my siblings and I would rush to Douglass Park to obtain free lunch from the truck. On weekends, we would beg for money at the Plaza—the parking lot in the West End where people dressed up to sit on the hoods of their freshly washed cars.
The neighborhood buzzed with boys involved in fights. At one point, my younger brother Colby needed a haircut, but our mother, Trina, couldn’t afford a barber. Instead, she shaved his head with a disposable razor, leaving tight coils scattered across the floor. The following day, the other kids on the school bus mocked the nicks on his head.
On one of my birthdays, I was perhaps six or seven years old, Trina allowed me to have a party. There were no balloons, cake, or presents—just a few wild girls from the neighborhood. While we were upstairs, another mother knocked on the front door. “I told y’all you were not allowed over here,” she reprimanded her daughters.
I knew other people who used drugs, but what transpired in our apartment was distinct. At any given time, individuals would occupy our bathroom or bedrooms, indulging in drug use. In return for the drugs, dealers offered Trina complimentary substances. Our home had a constant flow of strangers entering and exiting. One evening, as my brothers, sister, and I were coloring dinosaurs with green crayons, a man we had never seen before visited. He handed Colby a bag of drugs to stash away. Guns were also present. As I stood on the stairs one night, I witnessed a man in a red jacket passing a large, black Super Soaker-like gun to someone else. Trina made a nervous sound, “oooh,” and averted her gaze from the weapon. It was apparent she was apprehensive.
On a separate occasion, Trina went upstairs with a group of people to use drugs while I remained downstairs, crying, not wanting to be left alone. I noticed a man with hazel eyes and a mole on his face sitting in a chair, fixated on me. “Do you want me to make you feel good?” he asked. My tears ceased abruptly; even as a child, I understood that a grown man should never utter such words to a child. I was in third grade.
Although the police would occasionally visit, they never arrested Trina. However, they would handcuff her at times. Once, while she sat on the couch, my sister Ebony wept in her lap. “Can I change her diaper?” Ebony asked, but Trina needed her handcuffs removed first.
Trina was the name she went by; even as a child, I never referred to her as “Momma.”
I have no baby photos of myself. I recently reached out to relatives, inquiring if they had any images in their own albums. Unfortunately, they did not. However, a cousin did send me a photograph of Trina at her high school prom. Her hair was elegantly styled, and she wore a pastel-pink gown that clung to her small waist. She looked innocent. It was a photo that proud daughters would share on Instagram, revealing her undeniable beauty – something I had never truly acknowledged about my mother. To me, Trina was forever associated with the hospital bed.
I received a call in 2010 while working at my desk at People magazine in New York City. Trina had overdosed and suffered head trauma, potentially from her abusive boyfriend (not the first time), or perhaps both. When I arrived at the Lexington hospital, she was nearing death. Her right temple had been shaved and closed with staples. She struggled to open one eye, but upon seeing me, a faint smile appeared on her face.
But let me not get ahead of myself. First, let me share a bit about Trina Renee Watts.
Trina was born on October 16, 1965, in a different part of town from where we would reside as children. Her complexion was caramel, adorned with freckles, and an eye-shaped birthmark hovered over her right eye, resembling a bruise. She always had a passion for reading and writing, with English being her favorite subject in school. Trina also excelled in track. They likened her to the next Wilma Rudolph – that’s how fast she ran.
Trina was accepted into Western Kentucky University but dropped out when I entered the world in January 1985. My father’s name is Levi Fishback, and he crossed paths with Trina at a club called Tommy Campbell’s.
A year and a half after my birth, my sister JaShae arrived. She possessed a fair complexion, earning the nickname “high yellow.” Shay was a quiet child who seldom shed tears.
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