DISCLAIMER ALERT
All views expressed in this chapter are my own. They do not represent the person I knew later in life when I became an adult and a parent. People do change, repent and are forgiven. However, history cannot be erased or rewritten, but can be repeated. Hopefully, after reading this chapter, the next generation will not be offended.
Chapter 4
“Your daddy is a good provider”, Mama said. Kenneth Bennett Sr. butchered cattle and pigs at the Chicago Stock Yards which was located around Halsted between Pershing Road and 47th Street. His work week started around 4:00 o’clock every morning. The sun wasn’t scheduled to rise for another 3 hours. Unlike my siblings, who held on to sleep for dear life, I was an early riser. One lesson from Mama’s Words of Wisdom was “Never start something you don’t want to continue.” Her big mistake as a new bride was to get up early in the morning and prepare my daddy’s breakfast.
The menu consisted of:
scrambled eggs mixed with cow brains,
salt pork that had to be pre-boiled before it was fried,
fried potatoes and onions slowly simmered in the cast iron pan,
toast with butter
and black coffee.
I wasn’t a big fan of the cow brains and salt pork but I loved drinking coffee with my daddy. I think my cup was more of a cream and sugar concoction with a smidgen of coffee.
There are three things I remember about the Stock Yards. First, it was the aroma. Disembarking the CTA bus, we were immediately slapped in the face with a malodorous stench. But it was Friday, payday, and Mama had to meet my daddy at his job. The reasoning behind this weekly ritual will become clearer in this chapter. Second, Daddy would bring home a whole cow’s liver and divvy it up among the neighbors. I hated fried liver and onions, especially after seeing it lying on the kitchen counter basking in a pool of blood. However, there was one thing I LOVED about my daddy working at the stock yards - The Christmas Party.
I never seemed to notice the smell of cows and pigs the night of the Christmas party. There was always plenty of food and drinks. A monumental Christmas tree decorated with tinsels, lights and ornaments was the central focus of the room. The room was filled with happy children waiting in line to convince Santa, we’ve been good, (at least for that week) and tell him that gift we hope to receive. I should have known Santa was suspect. Each year I asked for the same thing and never got it. I’m still waiting for the miniature Cadillac car that you pedal to make it move. Santa was always white, but that didn’t bother me because every person in the Sears and Roebuck Christmas catalog was white. I just accepted that’s how the world was. I was just a little black girl that lived in a white world. The most exciting part of the Christmas party was the presents. They called us by age groups and we were given the best toys ever! I received a Tiny Tears doll, so what if she was white. I doubt if they even made them in my color.
Daddy gave us all nicknames. He called my mama Duck, Kenneth was Puddin, Carolyn-Ladybug, Janice-Cricket, LInda-Skeeta, and I was Snoochums. I was told of a call my mama received from my daddy when he was filling out insurance papers for the family.
“Duck, I’m trying to fill out these damn insurance papers. They want the names of the kids and their birthdates. The only name I know is Puddin’s and that’s cause he’s got my name.”
Not knowing our names was not the only thing my daddy didn’t know about us, or at least about me. I was 6 years old and for some reason thought it was a good idea to write my weekly word list on the doorpost of our house. It was a good idea until my father discovered my graffiti neatly written below the doorbell. Calling everyone together, we all scurried at attention like enlistments in basic training.
“Who wrote this?”, he yelled in a voice that could cause the earth to quake. We all stood, eyes bucked as we cowered in fear. And before I could make my confession, my dad said these words of liberation.
“I know Judy didn’t do this because she can’t write or spell.” Whew, thank God he thought I was illiterate! I slowly eased away from the interrogation and into the house to safety. I’m not sure of the outcome but I do know I came out unscathed.
Life at 333 West 58th Street was pretty much perfect for a kid. I acclimated into the new neighborhood. Summers involved jumping rope, riding bikes, and playing Piggy baseball in the vacant lot next to the railroad train. Not to mention the dress up tea parties with miniature tea cup and graham crackers.
I loved the fall. Leaves falling from the trees formed a colorful carpet of red, orange, yellow and brown, as we raked them into piles and set them ablaze. I pretended I was a squaw from the Blackfoot tribe, sending smoke signals of white gaseous vapors to the warriors.
The first snow of winter was always a welcomed guest. Even houses that had peeling paint, broken gutters and messy yards, seem to be covered with a snow white blanket of forgiveness. However, as Father Time approached his retirement, his white winter nostalgia was replaced with slushy brown snow that muddied into every vestibule.
I always thought that if there were only 5 days in a week with no weekend, my life would have been perfect. However, I couldn’t wish, pray or escape the weekend away. Friday always followed Thursday. I began this chapter with what my Mama said, “Your daddy is a good provider”. But what she didn’t say was “Your daddy is an alcoholic.”
Maybe Mama thought an alcoholic was someone who existed in a drunken state 24 hours a day. My daddy was sober Sunday night to Friday evening at 6:00. After 6pm on Fridays he morphed into a drunken tyrant.
I feared every Friday evening. Friday was payday at the stockyards. Some Fridays Mama would meet him at the job to get the weekly allowance Daddy allotted her for the household expenses. He would then immediately go drinking only to return home tipsy enough to breathe havoc. I tried to do everything I could to calm the volcano before it erupted. I drew his bath and laid his underwear, shirt and suit on the bed in preparation for him to go out for the night. I’m not sure where he went or what he did. I do know that most of his money would be gone and he was sloppy drunk when he finally came home in the wee hours of the morning. That’s when the night of terror began.
Being the youngest of 5 children, I had neither bedroom or bed. I was the unofficial roommate to everyone but my brother. Most Friday nights I slept with my mother. I guess subconsciously I wanted to be there to protect her. This particular night my father came home drunk and for some unknown reason, unusually irritated. Maybe he lost all of his money gambling or somebody insulted his manhood. Who knows?
I was a lite sleeper and I heard him put his key in the door after one of his drunken buddies dropped him off. I heard him staggering through the living room and entering the dining room bumping into chairs. He was making his way past the enclosed back porch to the staircase that led to the bedrooms. He fumbled his way up the stairs and into the bedroom where my mother lie perfectly still as in a deep sleep.
“Duck!”, he shouted abruptly, “Come down stairs!” I shivered in horror as my mother slowly emerged from the bed and methodically followed him down the stairs. I heard voices. Mainly my daddy yelling at my mother about something he thought she did or did not do. This went on for what seemed like an hour, when in reality only a few minutes. Then I heard my mother’s plea, “No Kenneth, the children are upstairs.”
A blast from a shotgun caused the house to shake. I knew what I dreaded most finally happened. I feared my father had shot my mother.
My father was a 2nd Amendment person- the right to bear arms. Guns were always visible in our household. Daddy kept his shotguns in the front closet and a pistol in his underwear drawer. Single bullets and shotgun shells were loosely available in the top drawer. I hated guns for this very reason I presently faced.
The sound of the gunshot stirred all of my siblings. We jumped out of bed and ran down the stairs. I saw my Mama seated in the chair in the living room. Her head in her hands, tears in her eyes. I hated to see her cry but I was relieved to see she was alive. Daddy in his drunken stupor, looked at us as if he had done nothing wrong. This was the daddy I knew every Friday night at 333 West 58th Street.
Written By: Dr. Angela Judith Conti Educator • Mother/Grandmother • Evangelist • Missionary • #iAMaRewriter
About
By profession, Dr. Conti is an educator whose main focuses have been on writing curriculum relatable to children of color. She hails from Chicago, Illinois and is the youngest of five born to Kenneth and Gladys Bennett. She has left many hearts prints throughout the world, but especially during her years spent between California and South Africa, where she served in various capacities through school districts, nonprofit organizations, and the Church of God. Presently, Dr. Conti lives in Atlanta, GA and is in full bloom operations with Conti’s Incredible Connection Homeschool and Tutoring. She is also a proud mother, grandmother, and an up-and-coming author, with more writing… coming soon.
