I seem to be consumed with the past these days, can't help myself. Maybe this is just a sign of getting older, I'm not sure, but it's got a hold of me. Time just moves forward with a twisted arrogance and determination toward an unknown future, not bothering to hesitate or pause. On October 20, 1977, thirty-one years ago, I gave birth to my first son, Anthony Lynn. As cliche as it may sound, it seems like just yesterday. At nineteen I was young, seriously naive, and a mom with absolutely no idea whatsoever of what I was getting myself into, which I guess is the blissful ignorance people speak of, and thinking back, I thank God for it.
It all started so simply. It was the summer of '76 and as head cheerleader it was my job to make sure we were prepared for cheer camp, which is what I was attempting to do the first day of practice, but the cheer squad was more interested in the buzz among our peers about the new senior, a black guy from Detroit city named Anthony. According to Michelle C., a classic beauty, perfect petite figure, perfect hair, fabulously perfect--you pick up the visual, he was a stone-cold fox. "No seriously, I saw him practicing with the football team and he like, couldn't keep his eyes off of me." The other cheerleaders gathered around her in awe as she flipped her brown curls and lapped up the attention. "Would you, like, date him?" Denise S. asked, a brunette with average looks whose voice held just a touch of disgust, combined with a tinge of excitement for what she probably considered a dance on the wild side. (Those were the times folks - Gerald Ford was ending his term, Jimmy Carter, a democrat, was stepping in to fix things and people named Obama weren't even considered as candidates). The whole conversation made me uncomfortable. One, the few black guys at school only dated white girls so no chance in hell he would be interested in me anyway, and two, at that time talking about race with an all white cast of players always made me feel uncomfortable.
Considering there were only 5 black family's in the area (the White's--I know, don't laugh, the Mose's, the Young's, the Bank's and my own family, the Beck's), we practically grew up together, like family, so having someone new come into our mix was definitely big news. In the 70's it was less socially acceptable for black girls to date white boys, so they decided that now I would have someone to date too. There were two exceptions to this unspoken rule. The first was Phyllis B. who was mulatto, and therefore close enough to white that she could play both sides of the fence. Phyllis was also known to jump to the other side quick enough during brief moments of social consciousness from time to time to spout "black power" with her "sisters". The other exception was my very best friend Mary, a rebel of our times, who dated who she wanted, when she wanted and dared anyone to say otherwise.
It all started so simply. It was the summer of '76 and as head cheerleader it was my job to make sure we were prepared for cheer camp, which is what I was attempting to do the first day of practice, but the cheer squad was more interested in the buzz among our peers about the new senior, a black guy from Detroit city named Anthony. According to Michelle C., a classic beauty, perfect petite figure, perfect hair, fabulously perfect--you pick up the visual, he was a stone-cold fox. "No seriously, I saw him practicing with the football team and he like, couldn't keep his eyes off of me." The other cheerleaders gathered around her in awe as she flipped her brown curls and lapped up the attention. "Would you, like, date him?" Denise S. asked, a brunette with average looks whose voice held just a touch of disgust, combined with a tinge of excitement for what she probably considered a dance on the wild side. (Those were the times folks - Gerald Ford was ending his term, Jimmy Carter, a democrat, was stepping in to fix things and people named Obama weren't even considered as candidates). The whole conversation made me uncomfortable. One, the few black guys at school only dated white girls so no chance in hell he would be interested in me anyway, and two, at that time talking about race with an all white cast of players always made me feel uncomfortable.
Considering there were only 5 black family's in the area (the White's--I know, don't laugh, the Mose's, the Young's, the Bank's and my own family, the Beck's), we practically grew up together, like family, so having someone new come into our mix was definitely big news. In the 70's it was less socially acceptable for black girls to date white boys, so they decided that now I would have someone to date too. There were two exceptions to this unspoken rule. The first was Phyllis B. who was mulatto, and therefore close enough to white that she could play both sides of the fence. Phyllis was also known to jump to the other side quick enough during brief moments of social consciousness from time to time to spout "black power" with her "sisters". The other exception was my very best friend Mary, a rebel of our times, who dated who she wanted, when she wanted and dared anyone to say otherwise.
I have to admit to being a bit curious, but it just so happened that year, unbeknownst to us, there were two black guys starting at F.P. Who would of thought? The first Anthony (aka Lloyd Anthony Charles), a transplant from California, was cute, if you go for the mama's-boy-type good looks, tall, Twiggy thin and lived at the Boys Ranch; a ranch for wayward and homeless boys. If I had a type--and I had know clear idea what that type was because my one and only date was with Van D., a junior from Lakes H.S., who'd accepted my invitation the year before to the Sadie's Hopkins Dance, this Anthony wouldn't be it. Michelle's definition of "stone-cold fox" was obviously different from my own, which wasn't a surprise, although by any body's standards, this guy was too skinny to play any significant role on the football team other than water boy.
I caught a glimpse of Anthony No. 2 the first day of my senior year. I was wearing my cheerleader outfit, a red and gold sweater, with the school mascot, a big white Cardinal sewn over my chest, red pleated skirt, ankle socks with red and white saddle shoes, which I hated. He was sitting in the office looking like he'd stepped off the cover of GQ - one arm lay casually across the arm of the chair beside him with his other hand resting on his knee, perfectly pleated pant leg crossed over the other, pointed wing-tip shoes and a hat he wore at a wicked slant. He looked like he was sitting in a club waiting for the waiter to deliver his drink, not a senior at a high school in the middle of Poe-dunk Tacoma (his adjective for my neighborhood, not mine). Our eyes met. He smiled. I saw heaven. He later told me he'd seen me walking toward the office way before I saw him and had thought, "That's the girl I'm going to marry."
Well, I wish I could call myself Cinderella and him my Prince Charming, but life is not a fairy tale. But I can tell you that on October 20, 1977, I had a son that I named after a young man from Detroit who stole my heart. And on that day 31 years ago, when I looked into my son's eyes for the very first time, I saw heaven.
An eighteen-year old boy from Detroit city came into my life and he literally turned it upside down, but when we parted only a few years later, he left me with the best of all he had to give. I now have two sons, and when I look at them I'm feel so lucky to have had such an important role in their lives. And if I had it to do over again, I wouldn't change a single thing.
