Away From My Mother's Watchful Eye

They say that “Angels” walk among us and I’d have to say that my mother, Clara, was probably the most Angelic person I’ve ever known; just a sweet, loving and caring person whose heart went out to everyone. Clara Mae Fallen was born in Danville, Virginia, to Mary and Fred Fallen. The oldest of three children, she was big hipped and “high yella,” two great qualities that served her well in the small town that put great emphasis and preference on light skinned Negroes. My grandmother, who was part Cherokee Indian, often proudly remarked that had we been born during slavery, we would’ve been the “house niggers” given our families light skin tones and delicate features. After high school, my mom went to work for a family of “good White folks” and the Missus took it upon herself to introduce her to their chauffeur, a good looking, and tall young man named Colonel. They soon married, had my sister Ruth and migrated to New York City where they quickly entered the restaurant business. They did quite well from all accounts even though it was a constant case of “one step forward and two steps back.” My father’s constant gambling drained the profits considerably. My mother often reflected on how they made five to six hundred dollars per night on the weekends alone, a lot of money in the fifties, only to have to borrow money from my grandmother on Monday morning to re-stock the restaurant. This gambling addiction would ultimately cost my parents their home and their business.

Clara and I developed a bond before I even arrived. I began communicating with her from the womb and she listened. Oh, I don’t mean that I actually talked but, I communicated in my own way and she did respond. For example, if she ate something too spicy, I’d kick her in the ribs and if she drank something too cold, I’d nudge where I thought her bladder was and send her running. Finally, over the course of nine months, we understood each other. So, even though her doctor, Dr. Aurelius King, told her not to expect me until Christmas day, she knew from my constant barrage of elbows and kicks that I was anxious to make my entrance. I’ve always had a sense of urgency about things and that has not changed until this very day.

My mom informed my dad, Colonel Jesse Mayfield that it was “time” and he’d have to interrupt the illegal gambling game that he ran in the basement of their restaurant. He must have had a bad card hand because he stopped the game immediately and asked his friend “Reebop” to give them a lift to the hospital in his brand new, 1953 Cadillac. My mother often recounted the story of how they pulled up to Williamsburg General Hospital in the Bushwick section of Brooklyn and Reebop jumped out of the car and ran inside to get a wheelchair. He apparently grabbed a wheelchair from the emergency room without asking anyone. Several nurses and a hospital security guard were hot on his heels as he burst through the doors, rushing to the car. The nurses immediately ushered my mother into the emergency room, registered her and notified Dr. King. As my mother lay on a gurney in the hallway, my father and Reebop nervously paced the floor.

Curtis Williams, affectionately called “Reebop,” was quite a character. About five feet, nine inches tall, with conked hair and a gold trimmed tooth, he was a known “numbers runner” and a low-level mob enforcer. His wife Sarah had knots all over her forehead, mementos of his violent temper and he would later be suspected in the murder of a rival numbers runner and convicted of manslaughter in the death of a man that attempted to rob him. He and my father were best friends and he was about to become my Godfather. My father, to my mother’s chagrin, ran around with some of the shadiest characters.

Dr. King finally arrived, greeted my father and rushed to my mother’s side as she lay in the hallway. They tell me that he complained to the nurses that my mother hadn’t been assigned a room. As he left to address that situation, he assured my mother that everything would be fine and that he would return shortly. I don’t know how he defined “shortly” but, upon his return, he was greeted by my mother and me. My mother had already had a child and apparently, the second child usually comes much faster. How that little fact escaped Dr. King is beyond me but, whatever, I was here. Eleven pounds of cute and round! We were quickly taken to a hospital room where I was cleaned up and my mother attended to. When informed that I had arrived, my dad and Reebop cut short their cigarette break and raced to the room. So, here they were looking down at me and me looking up at them, not knowing which one I was related to but hoping it wasn’t the one that blinded me from the glare of the sunlight bouncing off his proud, gold adorned smile. No, lucky for me, my dad was “the Colonel.”

My dad wasn't a military Colonel, though he had served in the Army during World War II. Colonel Jesse Mayfield was actually his birth name, as it was the custom in his day for Negro parents to give their children prestigious names that inadvertently demanded the respect of folks in general and White folks in particular. It was common to meet Negroes named General, Sergeant, George Washington So and So or Booker T. Washington. My father was very proud of being named Colonel and used it to his advantage to get out of more than one compromising situation. He often boasted about how being perceived as a military Colonel got him out of traffic tickets and even an arrest for gambling.