Wisdom Seeds (4 page)

Nana was gone. A part of me wanted to be in love with Tony, but he was gone, too. School was over and I was headed home. My summer would be spent in Pittsburgh where I would be interning with a research team. I was hoping the experience would help me decide what to do with my psychology degree – I still had no idea. My dad repeatedly expressed his disappointment with my indecisiveness. I would only be home for three weeks and that would be palatable for both of us, I hoped.

Packing the last box in my dorm room, I realized my best memories were from my summers in Wheeling. My degree said Penn State University; however, my life lessons were from Nana. I carefully packed each letter she sent me in the box on top of the love letters she and Pappy shared with each other. I was daydreaming and was startled by Mom standing in the doorway.

“Dani, your father's waiting in the car.”

“Here I come.” I put the top on my box of memories and walked out of the room without looking back.

Smithtown, New Jersey is a small family town. You need a detailed map of the Blackhorse Pike to find it. I knew just about everyone and those I didn't know, they knew me. My dad had been the pastor at St. Luke Baptist Church since I was three. He always said a good shepherd never leaves his flock.

Although time had changed, everything in Smithtown always remained the same. There was a town picnic every summer and everyone served Kool-Aid. New homes were built by successive generations that had come to appreciate the old hominess of Smithtown after realizing there really was no place like home – especially to raise children. Most Central High graduates still went to Rutgers, the University of Pennsylvania, Temple or Rowan University. Smithtown was a step back in time. Community and family values were not just slogans or campaign issues, they were truly the way of life – even if only pretentiously.

During the sixties and seventies places like Smithtown flourished with African Americans who were free to cross the tracks. Those who couldn't afford homes in Martha's Vineyard settled for small town life that mirrored Ward and June Cleaver. The hippies and love children were only images on the television that people shook their heads about. Cocktails were served at dinner parties and anyone who got drunk was considered the life of the party, not an alcoholic. The preacher, of course, never drank. It was the pastor's job to condemn the free love movement and the sexual revolution and to make it known that the only love power came from Jesus. The news was full of stories about a
country struggling with equality and mourning the leaders who had the power to affect change.

For the twenty years that the country had been undergoing a major paradigm shift, Smithtown and my dad remained about the same. With everything going on in the world, the most difficult thing in life for me was pleasing Reverend Allen.

I sang in the choir because my mother wanted me to. Although she has a beautiful voice, she had been told that the pastor's wife should teach Sunday school. She vicariously enjoyed the choir through me. I did all the other PK (Preacher's Kid) things too – I was in Young Life, I went to Prayer Meeting every Wednesday and I never missed Sunday School or Baptist Training Union. It was expected of me, especially since Joseph and Noah were prodigal sons who hadn't come home.

My oldest brother, Noah, diverted from my dad's number one son path when he started high school. Being a good basketball player and cute, coupled with being a PK, led to his swift demise. He was being groomed to be a preacher, but for as long as I could remember he hated going to church. I remember him taking money out the offering plate, skipping Sunday School and going to the Carvel to spend his offering money. He was a good liar too, and seemed to make up great excuses for not being where he was supposed to be. It was almost like he lived each day to be passively obstinate. His obstinance became complete defiance and his passivity turned into overt aggression against the man who had prayed for a son to follow in his footsteps.

By the time Noah was sixteen he had been kicked off the basketball team, was on probation in school and was hanging out in Atlantic City every weekend. In fact, by that
time he never came in from Saturday night until after we left for church. My dad would tell him every Friday that Atlantic City was the city of Gomorra and he should stop going there. He stopped a year later after he met Tashika. It was 1971, he was seventeen, she was nineteen, had twin girls and her own project apartment in Brooklyn, New York. I always knew he wasn't going to be a preacher – no matter how hard my dad tried to make him one.

The only thing Noah had in common with his biblical namesake was his drinking. Noah loved Happy Hour and always seemed to be in search of something he couldn't define. My father was in denial and remained convinced for years that Noah would return home seeking his forgiveness and ready to assume his pre-appointed role as the Assistant Pastor of St. Luke's. My mother was an enabler because she didn't know what else to do. She vacillated between blaming herself and blaming my dad, yet always remained impartial to her first-born – it was never as bad as my dad made it sound.

Joseph is another story. He too has one thing in common with his namesake – he is tenacious and has a good heart. Joey was a good kid and a good student and the brother could sing. I always loved listening to him and wished he had left a piece of that voice in Mom's womb for me. His voice was naturally engaging; it kept you on the edge of your seat, never wanting him to stop. He sang from his soul, as if he composed each song himself.

Joey started a youth choir when he was fourteen-years old and even the kids who didn't come to church joined the choir. That choir rocked the church when they sang! My dad complained it was too contemporary. Musically, Joey was ahead of his time.

It was Joey's love of all types of music that became the vice between him and my dad. Joey had a sincere
dedication to his dream of starring on Broadway. He did all kinds of odd jobs – cutting grass, pulling weeds, walking dogs – to earn money to see a Broadway play. Mom always worried about him going to New York, especially when he went alone, but Joey had a plan and a mission. When he was a junior in high school, he informed my parents that he intended to go to Julliard. My dad responded by trying to make Joey feel guilty about liking sacred and secular music. He would remind him daily that secular music was the devil's music.

The following summer, Joey quit directing the youth choir. He took a job at a casino in Atlantic City hoping to meet a celebrity who would give him a big break. Joey always managed to work on Sunday and avoided having to explain why he couldn't go to church anymore. A week after he graduated from high school he bought a plane ticket to Los Angeles.

And then there's me. The hero child, the one who spent years trying to make the family normal. I was motivated to do as I was told by the fear of disappointing my mom, and the need for my dad's approval. Noah's moving in with Tashika and Joey leaving home with no forwarding address broke my mom's heart. My dad was disheartened with both of his sons so I tried to be everything I thought my dad wanted. No matter what I did, it wasn't enough. When I didn't get the solo, he said I didn't try hard enough, and when I got a ‘C' in chemistry, he said I didn't work hard enough even though all my other grades were A's and B's. I was crushed when I came in third in the hundred yard dash at the State Track and Field Finals – my dad said I didn't want it bad enough. I was his only daughter but I could never redeem the legacy of his sons.

Sleep monopolized my first day home which allowed me to avoid my dad's questions about my future. On day two, my parents, assuming I was asleep, were discussing me in the dining room.

“That girl's going to make you very proud one day,” Mom said as I eavesdropped on their conversation from the top of the stairs. That was my usual spot which I had missed while I was away at Penn State. Having worked every summer during college, I avoided spending any length of time at home. For the first time in four years I would be home for three straight weeks.

My dad's response was flat. “She needs to be serious about the Lord. Without God there is no true success. God blessed her with a good mind and a good education and she couldn't find time once a week to thank Him.”

“You sound like you've given up,” was my mom's standard reply. “She does love Jesus.”

His reply was sarcastic. “If she loved Him she would go to church.”

Mom came to my defense. “She didn't like any of the churches on campus.”

“In four years she found plenty of parties, attended every football game and couldn't find one church to worship God once a week. I don't think she tried to hard!”

Meet my parents, Reverend David and Judith Allen.

The Sunday morning humidity seemed to shroud me as I descended the steps. At 7:30 the heat was already hanging in the air like the smell of fried chicken in Nana's kitchen. It was only May and my dad never turned on the air until June first.

“Morning Mom.” I hugged her taking the cup out of her hand. “Good morning Father.” I put the cup down on the sports page hoping he would look at me. “I'm going to church with you guys this morning. I've got a lot to be
thankful for and I'd like to personally tell God thank you,” I announced hoping to get his undivided attention.

“Tell me, Dani, what are you so thankful for?” He looked at me over the paper.

“I got the internship in Child & Adolescent Psychology at Western Psychiatric Institute in Pittsburgh,” I blurted out. “I'll be leaving in three weeks.”

“Oh that's great! Congratulations!” Mom got up and hugged me.

My dad moved the cup and picked up the paper. He never said a word.

“I'm staying with Andrea and Alicia. They don't live far from the University,” I added since no one had asked.

“You never mentioned any plans to leave. What made you decide to go to Pittsburgh?” Mom was trying to maintain her same tone of joy as she placed her cup in the sink.

“I don't know,” I said turning to face her. “It's an opportunity that should open up some doors for my career.” I humored myself with that one, as I had no idea of what I wanted to pursue as a career.

Mom tried to smile as she cleared my dad's dishes. Her smile was practiced and her eyes were sad, just as they had been for years. This was one more feather in her unhappy cap. The boys were gone and now I was jumping ship. I promised myself I would make her very proud of me. My dad never looked up or thanked her for clearing his dishes. I wondered if he even noticed her unhappiness. He had not changed and I was sure church service would be just as I remembered.

Riding in the back of my dad's Mercedes Benz, I was impressed. The pin stripes in his black suit matched the leather upholstery and he seemed to sit up a little taller. He
always talked about having a Benz.

I sat up between the seats. “Nice car.”

“Thank you,” my dad stated flatly.

Mom added, “This is what your father always wanted.”

“Seek ye first the Kingdom of God and His righteousness, and all these things shall be added to you,” I said hoping to impress him.

My dad looked back at me as he turned the corner. “Matthew 6:33.” He never smiled.

We rode the rest of the six blocks in silence. Three weeks, I thought to myself, twenty-one days and counting.

Sitting in the second seat of the second row, I stared at my dad during the church service as I listened to each hallelujah and amen that could have been scripted into his weekly sermon. I wondered if Reverend Allen would ever really get to know me and love me for who I was. He was good at making everyone at home miserable and I was convinced he as miserable, too. My dad proclaimed himself to be a scholarly preacher and intended to redeem the preacher family line from the shame my grandfather had cast upon it. However, neither of my brothers had followed the path my dad had chosen for them and both were estranged from the family.

In one of my psychology classes I studied people with my dad's profile. He would never accept the fact that his external, narcissistic behavior was in complete conflict to his role as a pastor. It was almost as if my dad was schizophrenic. He was a completely different person at the church. I realized at a very early age that I wanted Reverend Allen as my dad.

My mind continued to wander and I was unable to stay focused during the sermon. As usual, the theme for
May was family. In my attempt to understand the man that my mom had been married to for most of her adult life, I realized that much of what I knew about him was through the eyes of others. His congregation loved him. They saw him as an outstanding member of the African American community. He remained married to my mom, his only sweetheart. They raised three children who were parented by both of them in an era where blended families were becoming common place and even acceptable in the pulpit.